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I. The Bbothers op JPlokence 1 

II. The Pope and the Paintee .... 38 

'III. The Dtjkes oi Milan 79 

IV. The Brave Old Admiral of Genoa . . 100 

T. The Doge of Venice 148 

VI. The Astronomer op Padua . . . • . .180 
VII. The Eisherman op Naples 220 


No. I. 


In that lovely southern land, which for its extreme 
beauly and fertility has been styled ** the "Garden 
of Europe/' stand seven celebrated cities. Famous 
were they in the oldeu time, and famous are they 
still; — ^visited by travellers from all parts of the 
world, who view them with interest and admira- 
tion. And they are worthy of adiniration, and well 
deserve their titles, — Rome the "Ancient — Naples 
the Lovely — ^Florence the Fair — Grenoa the Superb 
— ^Padua the Learned — Milan the Magnificent — 
and Venice the BeautifiiL I will tell you some 
stories of their hjrgone days. 


*^ Of all the fairest cities of the earth, 
None is so fiur as Florence. 'Tis a gem 
Of purest ray ; and what a light broke forth. 
When it emerged from darkness ! Search within, 
Without ; all is enchantment ! 'Tis the Past 
Contending with the Present; and in turn 
Each has the masteiy." 

Within the marble halls of the magnificent palace 
of the Medici in Florence, there sat, long ago, four 
happy children. Descendants of that nohle house 
which for many ages had held sway in the fair 
city, their appearance and manners well befitted 
their high birth and station. Courteous, gentle, 
and ffenerous, they behaved to each other with 
lovinl affection, to their superiors mth modesty 
and respect, and to their inferiors with kindness 
and affability. Their names were Lorenzo, Nan- 
ninii, Bianca, and Giuliano. 

" I wonder when Grandpapa will return," said 
Nannina ; " it is now some days since we have seen 
-him. I shall be^lad when he comes home." 

"I think he is come," exclaimed Giuliano; 
" I heard the sound of horses in the court-yard ; 
and that must be his step on the stairs." 

The child's quick ears did not deceive him. In 
another minute the large folding doors at the end 


of the hall were thrown open, and Cosmo de Medici 
entered. He was a tall, dignified, and venerable 
looking old man, with features still handsome and 
expressive of kindly feelings. The children with 
bright and smiling faces hastened fotwards to greet 
and welcome him ; and when, seated in a massive 
arm-chair of carved oak, he blessed them and 
smiled upon them in return as they stood around 
him, they felt sure that they were going to have 
one of their great and rare treats — a chat with 

The family of the Medici had for many ages 
been esteemed one of the most considerable in the 
Florentine republic ; the true source of their wealth 
being their superior talents and their application to 
commerce. The renowned and illustrious Cosmo 
de Medici, however, surpaased all his predecessors 
in wealth, authority, generosity, and prudence. 
His palaces, one in Florence and four in the 
country, were regal in their size and splendour. 
Yet, though chief of the Florentine republic, and 
in constant intercourse with the sovereigns of Eu- 
rope, his conduct was devoid of all ostentation. 
Everything was tempered with prudewcfc. \xN.\sM!k 
conY&^Batjon, Ma servants, bis aty\fc oi \x«^^Sai%^ 


and his mode of living, the modest demeanour of 
the citizen was always evident. No one was jealous 
of his power, for by his virtue and prosperity he 
overcame all Eia enemies, and exalted all his friends. 
The uses to which he applied his great wealth 
caused him to be much beloved and respected in 
Florence, and obtained for him the highest con- 
sideration, not only throughout Italy, but through- 
out all Europe. His conduct was uniformly 
marked by urbanity and kindness to the superior 
ranks of his fellow-citizens, and by a constant 
attention to the interests and wants of the lower 
class, whom he relieved with the most unbounded 
generosity. He was the liberal and munificent 
patron of learning and the fine arts, which under 
his auspicies began to revive in Italy. 

" Yes, my dear boy," said the venerable old 
man, laying his hand on Giuliano's head, " I have 
been at Careggi, passing my hours with my books, 
and attending to the cultivation of my farms. It 
is both pleasant and profitable to retire at times 
from public affairs, and I own I went to Careggi, 
not so much for the purpose of improving my fields 
as myself." 
^^ Dear Grandpapa I" said Giuliano^ " do y(m 


need improvement? You, who lead such a useful 
and active life?" 

" We all need improvement, dear child, and the 
older we grow, the more we see our need of it. 
I have endeavoured to live usefully, but often do 
I look back with regret on the many hours I have 

" But you have done a great deal of good, 
Grandpapa, surely? How many churches you 
have bmlt, and with what beautiful pictures and 
statues have you adorned them !" observed Nannina. 

" I have never been able to lay out so much in 
the service of God as I would have done, Nannina; 
all I have done, or could do, is unequal to what the 
Almighty has done for me," 

" Tour life has been a prosperous one indeed, 
Grandpapa," said Lorenzo, , thoughtftdly, " and 
how honoured is youi: name in Italy 1 I feel 
glad to think how the poor love it, and the rich 
esteem it." 

** Yet my early days were full of trouble, Lorenzo, 
for I was exiled from Florence. From the age of 
forty, I have, however, enjoyed the most uninter- 
rupted felicity." 

" Ahl jou had enemies once, Si^ax Q^iim^'K^'^i.^ 


but you have none now," said Bianca ; " the 
Medici will not be exiled again." 

"Then must we be careful not to provoke 
jealousies, Bianca. A family such as ours can 
only maintain its position by moderation. Your 
great-grandfather, my children, by a strict atten- 
tion to commerce, gained immense wealth, and by 
his affability, moderation, and liberality, secured 
the confidence and esteem of his fellow-citizens. 
He sought not for the honours of the republic, yet 
was honoured with them all. On his death-bed 
he called us to him, and thus addressed us; — 
* I feel, my sons, that I have lived my appointed 
time. I die content, leaving you in affluence and 
health, and in such a station that whilst you follow 
my example, you may live honoured and respected 
in your native city. Nothing affords me more 
pleasure than the reflection that my conduct has 
not given offence to any one, but that, on the con- 
trary, I have endeavoured to serve all persons to 
the best of my abilities. I advise you to do the 
same. Be not anxious about honours, but accept 
such as are bestowed on you through the favour of 
your fellow-citizens.' This advice I have endea- 
roured to follow^ and it will be well for you. 


Lorenzo, and you, my Giuliano, to do the same. 
Tour good father is in infirm health, and you may 
be early called into public life." 

" I will try to be a great and good man," said 
Griuliano, while Lorenzo expressed a hope that he 
should render himself worthy of his illustrious 

" That is well," replied Cosmo de Medici, " and 
now see, Giuliano, what is that prancing I hear in 
the court." 

The boy ran to the window. *' Oh, Grandpapa ! " 
he exclaimed, " there is a beautiful Arabian horse, 
witix flowing tail and mane! he is so pretty and 

" That horse is for you, Giuliano, if you think 
you can manage it," said Cosmo. « It is time you 
learned to ride."« 

Giuliano was perfectly delighted. Departing 
£rom the usual custom of respectfully kissing the 
hand of his aged relative, he threw his arms round 
his neck, and embraced him with all the love 
of his young heart. "Thank you a thousand 
times, dear Grandpapa," he said; "it was the 
only thing I wanted to make me quite^ quite 


The old man smiled^ " It will be well if thy 
wishes axe always as moderate, my child," he said, 
as he rose to depart, "but that I cannot hope. 
Now go and try your charger." 

Tears passed away. The children of Piero dci 
Medici, as they grew up, gave promise of no ordi- 
nary talent. Lorenzo, with good sense, and great 
natural ability, inherited also his grandfather's love 
of literature and the fine arts. He made great 
progress in learning, and whilst he was yet a boy, 
rendered himself conspicuous by his poetical talents 
and various accomplishments. The two fair girls, 
Nannina and Bianca, brought up under their 
mother's watchftil eye, received such instructions 
as in those days were deemed befitting the daugh- 
ters of a noblfe house; and the merry Giuliano, 
though he did not by any means neglect his studies, 
was yet more partial to horsemanship, wrestling, 
and throwing the spear, in which' active exercises 
he excelled. Both the brothers were fond of country 
sports, and in riding or hawking passed many 
a pleasant day. Alike generous and afiectionate^ 
educated under the same roof, and participating in 
the same studies and amusements, there subsisted 
between Lorenzo and Giuliano a ^rarm and unin- 


terrupted attachment. By a frequent intercourse 
with their venerable grandfather, and by the ex- 
ample and instructions of their mother, Lu- 
cretia, who was one of the most accomplished 
women of the age— distinguished not only as a 
patroness of learning, but by her own writings 
also — ^they were daily preparing for the high sta- 
tion which they were destined to occupy in their 
native city. 

Lorenzo was fifteen years of age, and Giuliano 
between ten and eleven, when one summer's day 
they wandered forth to enjoy the balmy air of their 
delicious clime. The country round Florence is 
very beautiful. The blue Amo, winding through 
the richly cultivated land,— now hiding itself be- 
hind the vineyards or olive groves, now gliding 
between fields of waving com and verdant grass ; 
the flowers — and the flowers in the neighbourhood 
of Florence are considered the most beautiful in 
Italy-springing up m luxuriant profasion on all 
sides ; the trees in their summer foliage, and in 
the distance the lofty Apennines ; — these were the 
objects on which the eyes of the brothers rested^ ea 
ihejr wandered forth that Bunny day. 


They were then staying at their father's seat a 
short distance from the city ; and great was their 
delight in rambling together through the vineyards 
and olive groves which surrounded the princely 
mansion. But whilst in the height of their enjoy- 
ment, a messenger approached them with troubled 

" It is Bernardo ! " exclaimed Lorenzo ; " I trust 
he brings no iU tidings. What news from the city, 
good Bernardo?" 

" I regret to announce to you, Signors, that 
your illustrious grandfather lies dangerously ill. 
I am the bearer of this packet from my honoured 
master, which wiU info4 you of furth'er particu- 

The brothers with tearful eyes read the letter 
from their father confirming B^nardo's account. 
He told them that Cosmo considered himself as a 
dying man, and expressed his willingness to submit 
to the dispensations of Providence. He spoke of 
his many yirtues, and exhorted his sons to foUow 
his example. 

Lorenzo and Giuliano were deeply grieved at 
these sad tidings. They walked slowly and sor- 
rowfullj- home, thinking of the many proofs of 


affection they had received from their venerable 
relative, and fearing they should see him no more. 
Their fears proved true, Cosmo de Medici, the 
merchant prince of Florence, died arreatly lamented. 
He was i^ the zenitli of his glory, ini in the 
enjoyment of the highest renown, 'when death 
summoned him away. All the Christian princes 
mourned his loss. His funeral was conducted with 
the utmost pomp and solemnity, the whole city 
following him to his tomb in the church of San 
Lorenzo, on which, by public decree, his name was 
inscribed as " Father of his Country." 

Before he died, this great man rLnunended to 
Piero a strict attention to the education of his 
sons, of whose promising talents he expressed his 
hopes and approbation. His wife inquiring why 
he closed his eyes, " That I may accustom them to 
it," was his reply. 

" Giuliano," said Lorenzo, a few days after their 
loss, " we must endeavour to follow the example 
of our illustrious grandfather. The esteem he 
inspired was founded on real merit." 

" Ah ! he was so liberal, and noble, and wi&el" 
replied Giuliano. 


" Yet my father says he knew not half his libe- 
rality till now, for he was not one to boast of his 
good deeds. It appears that there is no citizen of 
note in Florence to whom Cosmo de Medici has 
not lent a large sum of money ; and often, when 
informed of some nobleman in distress, he has 
relieved him unasked." 

" Yes, he had a kind heart and an open hand, 
ever ready to lend or to bestow. Even lungs have 
been indebted to him, I have heard my father 

• " True. During the contest in England between 
the houses of York and Lancaster, Edward the 
Fourth wanting the means for carrying on the 
war, our grandfather lent him an immense sum of 
money, and thus assisted him to gain the throne. 
Giuliano, I hope I shaU be as magnificent in my 
acts as he was." 

" And I hope I shall be like him in kindness 
and benevolence,'* replied Giuliano. • 

Soon after the death of Cosmo de Medici, 

Lorenzo entered on the stage of public life. The 

infirmities of Piero rendered him anxious for the 

assistance, arid even advice, of a son who had 

sJreadjrevinced much sound judgment, promptitude, 


and decision of character. The vigour of his intel- 
lect, and that exquisite taste in poetry, music, and 
eve^department of the fine axts, for which he wa« 
afterwards so eminently distinguished, joined to 
many amiable qualities, caused the Florentines to 
regard him with esteem and affection, and to look 
upon him as a worthy successor of the illustrious 
Cosmo. And it was not very long before an event 
occurred which caused them to admire still more 
3Lorenzo's decision of character. 

Among the number of opulent and aspiring 
citizens of Florence, was Luca Pitti, the founder of 
that magnificent palace which has for some centu- 
ries been the residence of the sovereigns of Tuscany. 
He had reluctantly submitted to the superior talents 
of Cosmo de Medici, but now that he was gone, 
endeavoured to supplant the authority and destroy 
the influence of his son, Piero, with the magistrates 
and council of the city. Finding, however, that 
he could not succeed in this, he resolved on a 
fearful crime — nothing less than the assassination 
of Piero. 

Weakened by gout, Piero was generally carried 
in a chair from his liouse at Careggi to his resi- 
dence in Florence, and the cons]pvia\.OT» ^QKV^^^. 


would be a good opportunity to attack him on the 

One morning, accompanied only by a few at- 
tendants, Piero set out from Careggi. Lorenzo, 
who had left a short time before his father, was 
surprised to find one part of the road to the city 
beset with armed men. Their purpose he imme- 
diately suspected. 

"Ha! this bodes mischief 1" he exclaimed. 
" Haste, Nicolo ! haste back to my father," he 
said to one of his followers ; " beg him, from me, 
to abandon the direct road to Florence, and pro- 
ceed by the retired and circuitous path through the 
vineyards ; he will do so at my request. As you 
love me, haste ! " 

The servalit needed not a second order ; he set 
spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in an 

The young de Medici then rode quietly on. 

" How fares the noble Piero ? Go«ies he not to 
the city to-day ? " were the questions with which 
the conspirators assailed him, apparently anxious 
for his father's health. 

" He follows at a short distance,'^ replied Lo- 
renzo, marking each speaker with his keen glance ; 


" and is indebted to jou, Sirs," he added, with a 
slight smile, " for jour anxious care of }\i& health 
and safety." 

He bowed, and passed on ; but his promptitude 
and coolness had saved his father's life. 

The conspiracy was discovered, and quelled. 
Luca Pitti fell into disgrace, and passed the re- 
mainder of his days in obscurity and neglect The 
Florentines were much displeased with him. The 
progress of his magnificent palace was stopped, and 
those citizens who had contributed to it costly 
articles and materials, demanded them baek again, 
declaring they were only lent. They would not 
assist in any way an enemy to the noble family of 
the Medici. 

When Lorenzo was twenty-one years of age, 
he married Clarice, a daughter of the illustrious 
house of Orsini, in Rome. Their nuptials were 
celebrated with great splendour, and Lorenzo 
ever treated his wife with particular respect and 

Not long after his marriage, he went to Milan, 
£or the purpose of standing sponsor to the eldest 
gon of the reigning duke. Perhapa you^o-vs^AL^^Sss. 



to read the following letter, wliich he wrote from 
that city. 

*' Lorenzo de Medici to his wife Clarice : — 

" I arrived here in safety, and am in good 
health, This, I believe, -will please thee better 
than anything else except my return — ^at least, so 
I judge from my own desire, to be once more with 
thee. Associate as much as possible with my 
father and my sisters. I shall make all possible 
speed to return to thee, for it appears a thousand 
years tiU I see thee again. Pray to God for me. 
If thou want anything from this place, write in 

" From 

" Thy Lorenzo de Medici. 

« Milan, 22d of July, 1469. 


" And how did they treat you at Milan, dear 
Lorenzo ? " asked his brother Giuliano, on his 
return home. 

" With great distinction and honour, however 
aadeserred/^ replied Lorenzo ; *• more, indeed, 


than was shown to any other person present, 
although there were many much better entitled 
to it." 

" That I cannot think," said GiuUano, looking 
proudly and fondly on his brother. " I am told, 
Lorenzo, that with your usual generosity you 
presented to the duchess a gold necklace, and a 
diamond worth 3,000 ducats." 

" Whence it followed, that the duke requested 
I would stand sponsor to all his children," replied 
Lorenzo, laughing* " He purposes paying our fair 
city a visit ere long ; we must receive him well. 
But Giuliano, my brother, I wished to tell you 
how much I rejoice in seeing the progress you 
have made in all your studies and varied accom- 
plishments lately. The beautiful poem you have 
written is the subject of much praise, and your 
having carried off the prize in the last tournament 
has delighted the citizens, with whom you appear 
to be a universal favourite. Continue to improve, 
dear Giuliano; so will you add honour to the name 
of Medici." 

" Then that will be only by my following the 
example of Lorenzo," replied the youth affection- 



It was true, that by his urbanity, generosity, 
and amiable disposition, Giuliano had gained, in a 
great degree, the affections of the people oi 
Florence, to which it is probable his fondness foi 
public exhibitions not a little contributed. He 
was a noble-looking youth, tall in stature, and of 
a joyous countenance. Skilled in horsemanship, 
and all the athletic exercises of the day, he at the 
same time studied the learned languages with 
much success, delighted in music and poetry, and 
in his attention to men of talent partook of the 
celebrity of his brother. He habituated himself tc 
endure thirst, hunger, and fatigue ; possessed grea1 
courage and unshaken fortitude, and was a friend 
to religion and order. Added to this, he had all 
the humanity and benevolence that could be wished 
for in one bom to such an exalted station. It ig 
little to be wondered at that Giuliano was beloved 
both at home and abroad. 

Piero de Medici did not long survive the mar- 
riage of his son. On the second day after his death, 
the principal inhabitants of Florence waited on 
Lorenzo, and requested that he would take upon 
himself the administration and care of the republic 
in the same manner as his father and grand&thei 


had done before him. It was a high honour to 
one so young, and Lorenzo felt it as such. He 
hesitated, at first, to comply with their wishes, but 
they persuaded him ; and then, aware of the diflB- 
culties which he had to encounter, selected as his 
chief advisers those citizens most esteemed for their 
integrity and prudence, whom he always consulted 
on questions of importance. 

" You are young, dear Lorenzo, to be tlius dis- 
tinguished," said his sister Nannina to him the 
next time they met. " I almost wept when I heard 
of the grey-haired citizens so earnestly entreating 
you to accept the dignity." 

" I am young, Nannina, and deeply I feel my 
responsibility. But see, my sister, I have to-day 
received these letters of condolence from several of 
the Italian princes, in which they assure me of 
their friendship and support. I owe it all to my 
illustrious grandfather, in whose steps I would 
endeavour to walk." 

^ Then will you do well, dear Lorenzo. You 
aise the master of immense wealth ; lay it out as he 
did, for the good of others." 

y I will, Nannina. Our ancestors, in the space 
of a few years, expended no \e^s» \)![vmi ^^^5^^^ 


florins in works of public charity or utility. Some 
persons might, perhaps, think it would be more 
desirable to have a part of this enormous sum in 
their purses ; but I conceive it has been a great 
advantage to the public, and well laid out, and am, 
therefore, perfectly satisfied. I have a great desire 
to encourage learning and the fine arts, and to raise 
my native city to renown and honour." 

" Ah ! Giuliano and I agree you have magnificent 
ideas, and as you have also a magnificent fortune, 
you can accomplish what you desire," said Nan- 
nina, with a smile. " Here comes our merry 
brother, let us accompany him and Clarice to the 

In the spring of 1471, the Duke of Milan paid 
his promised visit to Florence. He and his duchess, 
Bona, took up their residence with Lorenzo, but 
their attendants were so numerous, that even the 
magnificent palace of the Medici could not contain 
them. They consisted of six hundred armed men, 
as a guard of honour, fifty running footmen, richly 
dressed in silk and silver, and so many noblemen 
and courtiers, that with their different retinues 
thejr amounted to two thousand horsemen ! Be- 


sides these, there were five hundred couple of dogs, 
and an infinite number of falcons and hawks. It 
is well such visits are not paid in these days ! 
What would one of our rich English merchants say- 
to such an invasion, renowned though they be for 
their liberal hearts and hospitable halls ! 

The Duke of Milan, who was vain and foolish, 
thought, by all this display, to dazzle the eyes of 
the Florentines. His equipage was in the highest 
style of splendour and expense. But, notwith- 
standing this profusion, his wonder, and perhaps 
his envy, was excited by the superior magnificence 
of Lorenzo, which was of a kind not always in the 
power of riches to procure. The great variety of 
statues, vases; gems, and intaglios, ornamenting the 
Medicean palace — ^the extensive collection of the 
finest remains of ancient art, selected with equal 
assiduity and expense — the celebrated library — 
and, above all, the paintings, the productions of the 
best masters of the day, excited alike the astonish- 
ment and admiration of the noble visitor. 

" In all Italy I have not seen such pictures as 
these ! " he exclaimed, as he and Lorenzo walked 
through the galleries and halls. " Notm\k'e\,"«CLftxw^ 
mj predilection for courtly show auA gt«xA^»x-v 




I must confess, that in comparison with what I 
have beheld in your palace, gold and silver sink 
into insignificance." 

Amongst the festivities and grand spectacles 
which took place in Florence for the entertainment 
of the Milanese visitors, there was held a gay- 
tournament, in which Giuliano bore away the 
prize, to the great delight of the people. The 
tournaments of old were goodly shows, and 
favourite pastimes with the Florentines. 

" Each mantle gemm'd floats gaily, 

Each courser stamps and fumes : 
*Ti8 a heaving sea, whose billows free 

Are banners and dancing plumes. 

The air is full of battle, 

It is full of the trumpet's sound, 
Of the tramp of dashing horses, 

And the cries of the crowd around. 

The earth is strown with splendour. 

It is strown with fair plumes torn, 
With glove, and scarf, and streamer. 

For the love of ladies worn ; 

But each maiden watch'd her champion, 

And oft her white hands sent 
Fresh gifts for every token 

Th&t W&& lost in the tonniai.ment. 


Oh 1- with BQch eves above them. 

Such voices to cheer the strife, 
No marvel those warriors tilted 

Like men who are tilting for life ! " 

And wlien shouts arose for the victor, anil 
Ginliano, kneeling on the turf, received the prize 
his lance had won, how the hearts of his sisters 
thrilled with pleasure, as Nannina, unlacing his 
steel helmet, placed on his brow the chaplet of 
green laurel, — 

" While every lip is busy 

With the honour of his name. 
And with glowing cheeks each good knight speaks 
The story of his fame ! " 

But I come now to a very sad part of my story. 
A few years after the visit of the Duke of Milan, 
an event took place in Florence which has seldom 
been mentioned without emotions of hon-or and 
detestation, and which aflforded an undoubted proof 
of the ungodliness and irreligion which prevailed 
in Italy at that time ; for fearftd and atrocious as 
the crime was, a pope, a cardinal, an archbishop, 
and several other priests, were the promoters and 
instigators of it ! The lovely land of Italy, without 
the pure light of the glorious gospel, was dark, 
degraded, aud unhappy ! 



One of the noblest and wealthiest of the families 
in Florence was the family of the Pazzi. Though 
they had received favours from the house of Me- 
dici, they were jealous of its rising power; and 
when Pope Sixtus the Fourth stood at the head of 
a conspiracy to destroy two young men who were 
an honour to their age and country, they willingly 
joined him and his band of ruffians. Sixtus the 
Fourth was the first who began to show how far 
a pope might go, and how much that which was 
previously regarded as sinful, lost its iniquity when 
committed by a pontiflF. He, with his great- 
nephew, the Cardinal Eiario, the Archbishop of 
Pisa, the King of Naples, and the Pazzi family, 
secretly agreed together to assassinate the noble 
brothers, Lorenzo and Giuliano de Medici ! 

The plans of the conspirators being arranged, 
the cardinal and archbishop came to Florence, and 
took up their residence at a seat of the Pazzi, 
about a mile from the city. Lorenzo, who was 
then at Fiesole, hearing of their arrival, with his 
usual hospitality invited them to his house, and 
prepared a magnificent entertainment on the occa- 
sion. This pleased the conspirators ; they accepted 
the invitation f and agreed that the brothers should 


"be assassinated in the midst of the banquet. They 
went to Fiesole, bnt to their disappointment, 
Ginliano, on account of indisposition, did not 
appear; and so their wicked design was, for a 
time, frustrated. 

" We have been foiled to-day," said Francesco 
de Pazzi, when they had returned home ; " but it 
shall not happen again. I long for the hour when 
the power of the proud Medici shall be trampled in 
the dust. If the deed is to be done, my lord arch- 
bishop, there should be no delay." 

" There shall be none," replied the archbishop ; 
** I am as anxious for the death of Lorenzo de 
Medici as you are, Francesco de Pazzi. Did he 
not object to my preferment on the ground that 
my character could not bear inspection? Yes; 
and he shall feel my revenge ! On Sunday morn- 
ing next, when all will be present in the church of 
the Reparata, our purpose shall be accomplished. 
The signal for the murder shall be the elevation of 
the host." 

" A bad hour, and an improper place to choose 
fol*' such a deed," observed Giovan Batista, a sol- 
dier who had much distinguished himself; "whilst 
I thought it was to take place m ^ ^xv^^Xi^ V^-viSsie, 


I did not object; but now the case is diffe- 

" It signifies little where it takes place," replied 
the archbishop ; *' our purpose is to see it done. 
And as you are a brave man, Giovan Batista, we 
commit the assassination of Lorenzo to your 

" Not to me, my lord! — ^not to me!" said the 
soldier. " Bold as I am, I am not bold enough to 
pollute the house of God with the crime of murder, 
or base enough with my own hand to take the life 
of one who has been a good fiiend to me." 

" I pity your scruples," replied the archbishop, 
with a sneer ; " but we need not your help ; there 
are many ready to perform the service." And he 
selected two priests to execute the deed from which 
the soldier shrank. 

" I will undertake the assassination of Giuliano," 
exclaimed Francesco de Pazzi, " that office shall 
be mine ; though we have been on friendly terms, 
I am not so scrupulous as Giovan." 

" Be it so ; we leave him to you and Bandini. 
His holiness the pope will not fail to reward your 


^'Ajr, — his ioliness would have the dominion of 


Florence for himself," muttered Francesco ; " but 
that shall not be whilst I live." 

It was then agreed that the archbishop should 
seize on the palace where the magistrates assembled, 
whilst at the same time Jacopo de Pazzi was to 
endeavour, by the cry of liberty, to incite the 
citizens to revolt. 

While these bold and bad men were thus 
arranging their wicked plans, the two brothers, 
perfectly unsuspicious of what was going on, were 
passing their time in attention to public affairs, 
and in the studies in which they both delighted. 
It was pleasant to the citizens to witness their 
mutual affection, and to see the confidence and 
esteem which they felt for each other. Alas! they 
were about to be parted by a fearful blow! 

Having heard that the young cardinal Eiario 
desired to attend divine service in the church of 
the Reparata, Lorenzo invited him and his suite to 
his palace in Florence. On Sunday, the 26th of 
AprU, 1478, he accordingly came with a large 
retinue, aud was received by Lorenzo with that 
splendour and hospitality with which he was 
always accustomed to entertain men of high t^wk 
and consequence. 


Giuliano did not appear, — a circumstance which 
alarmed the conspirators at first; but Lorenzo, 
apologising for his brother's absence, informed 
them he intended to be present in the church. 

Thither the party proceeded. The service had 
already begun, and the cardinal had taken his seat, 
when Francesco de Pazzi and Bandini, observing 
that Giuliano had not arrived, left the church, and 
went to his house in order to hasten and secure his 
attendance. Giuliano accompanied them; and, 
merrily laughing and chatting, the three young 
men walked on together. They entered the church, 
and the conspirators, standing near their intended 
victims, waited impatiently for the appointed 
signal. The bell rang, — the priest raised the con- 
secrated wafer, — the people knelt before it, — and 
the next instant, Francesco de Pazzi drawing a 
short dagger, Giuliano de Medici lay dead upon 
the ground ! 

Lorenzo happily escaped. The two priests who 
had undertaken his assassination, perceiving that 
he prepared to defend himself, fled, but not without 
giving him a wound in the neck. The unfortunate 
Giuliano, though he usually wore a dagger, had 
that day left it behind him. As . Bandini, fury in 


his looks, rushed forwards, the friends of Lorenzo, 
encircling him, hurried him into the sacristy, and 
closed the brass doors. The alarm and consterna- 
tion in the church was extreme ; and such was the 
tumult which ensued, that many thought the 
building was falling in. But no sooner was it 
understood that Lorenzo de Medici was in danger, 
than several young men, forming themselves into 
a body, placed him in the midst oi them, and con- 
ducted him to his palace, making a circuitous turn 
from the church, lest he should meet with the life- 
less form of his beloved brother, — that brother 
who so lately was full of health and happiness by 
his side ! 

One of these noble youths, named Antonio 
Ridolfo, gave a striking proof of his aflfection for 
Lorenzo. Being apprehensive that the weapon 
which had struck him was poisoned, he, in spite 
of Lorenzo's entreaties, sucked the wound. An 
attendant on the Medici was wounded, and another 
lost his life, in defence of their master. 

Whilst these terrible events were passing, the 
Archbishop of Pisa had, with about thirty of his 
associates, made an attempt to overthroYr tlv<^ 
magistrates^ and possess themseVv^ oi \)dl^ ^^"^X^ ^^ 


government. He went to the palace, and leaving 
his followers in an adjoining chamber, entered the 
apartment where Petrucci, the gonfaloniere, and 
the other magistrates, were assembled. Out of 
* respect for his rank, and little dreaming for what 
purpose' he came, Petrucci rose to receive him. 
But there was something in the quiet dignity of 
the magistrate's manner, and in the penetrating 
glance of his eye, that abashed the archbishop. 
Guilt makes a man a coward. He knew Petrucci 
to be of a resolute character, and began to wish he 
had not encountered him. Instead, therefore, of 
making a sudden attack, as was intended, he began 
talking to the gonfaloniere about his son, and this 
he did in such a hesitating, confused manner, that 
it was scarcely possible to understand what he said. 
Petrucci also observed that he frequently changed 
colour, and at times turned towards the door, as if 
to give a signal for some one to approach. Aware 
of the character of the man, the magistrate's sus- 
picions were aroused, and he called aloud for his 
guards and attendants. The archbishop, rushing 
from the apartment, did the same ; but a curious 
incident had deprived him of their help. They 
fvere awaiting his signal in a chamber in wliich it 


was the custom for every succeeding magistrate to 
make an alteration, as a guard against treachery. 
Petrucci had so constructed the doors that they 
closed and bolted on the slightest impulse, and 
the conspirators found themselves thus imex- 
pectedly secured in the apartment, without the 
possibility of affording the slightest assistance to 
their leader ! 

The magistrates, finding how matters stood, 
soon secured the gates of the palace, and repulsed 
their enemies. But on looking from the windows 
they beheld Jacopo de Pazzi, with about a himdred 
soldiers, calling out, "Liberty! Liberty!" and 
exciting the people to revolt. At the same time 
they were informed of the murder of Giuliano, and 
the attack made upon Lorenzo. 

Their indignation was extreme. " Giuliano de 
Medici dead!" they exclaimed. "Assassinated 
in his own city! and by treachery, too! — We little 
know the Florentines, if they do not fearfully 
avenge the crime." 

They did so. Instead of answering to the cry 
of liberty, the people with one accord rose up to 
take signal vengeance on the murderers of a 
Medici. It was a sad and terrible Aa.y\ ^'cl ^-^^st^ 


direction the conspirators were attacked and 
slaughtered. The resentment of the citizens knew 
no bounds. The streets resounded with shouts of 
" Palle ! palle ! — Perish the traitors ! " * Francesco 
de Pazzi and the Archbishop of Pisa were seized 
and hung side by side through the windows of the 
palace, the latter not even being allowed to divest 
himself of his prelatical robes. Jacopo de Pazzi 
shared the same fate. Whilst parading the city, 
he had been met by his brother-in-law, who up- 
braided him with his conduct, adding, " I would 
advise you to go home, Jacopo; the people and 
liberty are as dear to other citizens as they are to 
yourself." Finding that no one seemed disposed 
to revolt from the Medici, but that, on the contrary, 
stones were thrown at him for proposing it, Jacopo 
thought it better to leave Florence. Some peasants, 
however, discovered him, brought him back to the 
city, and he was hung by the side of his associates. 
His body, after being treated with the greatest 
indignity, was thrown insultingly into the waters 
of the Amo. 

Such was the fate of one who had been, as it 


The palle d'or, or golden balls, were the arms of the family 
ibe MedicL 


were, a prince in Florence, and who had received 
the highest honours of the state ! 

The two priests who had undertaken to assas- 
sinate Lorenzo, Giovan Batista, and the cruel 
Bandini, were all put to death. The latter had 
taken refuge in Constantinople, but the sultan, 
being apprised of his crime, ordered him to be 
seized and sent in chains to Florence ; alleging, as 
his motive for doing so, the respect he had for the 
character of Lorenzo de Medici. 

As for the young Cardinal Biario, who had fled 
for safety to the altar, he was preserved from the 
enraged populace by the interference of Lorenzo ; 
but the fright he experienced on this occasion 
affected him so much, that, it is said, he never 
afterwards recovered his natural complexion. 

Throughout the whole of this dreadful retribu- 
tion — and more than a himdred 6f the conspirators 
had perished — ^Lorenzo had exerted all his influ- 
ence to restrain the indignation of the people, and 
to prevent ftffther slaughter. Soon after the attack 
made upon his life, an immense multitude sur- 
rounded his palace, and not being convinced of his 
safety, demanded to see him. Full of bitter grief 
as he was at the untimely death oi Yivft\»to^^T^«sA 



suffering from the wound in his neck, Lorenzo 
gladly seized the opportunity which their affection 
afforded him, and, appearing on the balcony, im- 
plored them, in a pathetic and forcible speech, to 
moderate the violence of their resentment. 

"Let me entreat you, my fellow-citizens," he 
said, " by the love you bear me — ^by the love you 
bore my lamented brother — to calm your excited 
feelings. A dreadful crime has been committed — 
an atrocious crime. But take not on yourselves 
the task of punishing the guilty, lest you involve 
the innocent also in destruction. Leave that to 
the magistrates; they will do justice — they will 
avenge this fearfiil deed. You have given me 
many proofs of your affection — give me yet another ; 
— let not the name of Medici be a signal for violence 
and bloodshed." 

His words and appearance had a powerful and 
instantaneous effect. "We devote ourselves to 
you and your cause, noble Lorenzo!" cried the 
people with one voice ; " your wish is our law. 
Only we pray you earnestly to take all possible 
precautions for your safety, as on that depends 
the welfare of the Kepublic and the hopes of the 
Florentines. " 


They left the palace — many* with tears in their 
eyes, at the calamity which had befallen the 
house of Medici; and many more with expres- 
sions of deep anger against the authors of it. 
." They have cut him oflf in the pride of youth 
and beauty!" they exclaimed; "his death must 
be atoned for." 

" But Lorenzo yet lives ! " said one ; and imme- 
diately the streets echoed far and wide with shouts 
of " Long live Lorenzo de Medici ! " 

Turning to the Florentine nobles, by whom he 
was surrounded, Lorenzo observed, "I feel more 
anxiety from the acclamations of my friends, 
than I have even experienced from my own dis- 

There was not a citizen of any rank whatever in 
Florence who did not, upon this melancholy occa- 
sion, wait upon him with an offer of his services ; 
so great was the popularity which the Medici had 
acquired by their prudence and liberality. 

The death of Giuliano was deeply lamented, 
not only by his family, but by all Florence. 
His obsequies were performed with much mag- 
nificence in the Church of San Lorenzio, ^\oi4.^^ 
universal sorrow^ Many of the FloteiTLA^e ^crofi^v 


changed their dress in testimony of respect to his 

But the people could not forgive the Pazzi 
family. Those of them who had not suffered death 
were condemned either to imprisonment or exile. 
By a public decree it was ordered that the name 
and arms of the Pazzi should be for ever sup- 
]pres8ed ; whilst the appellations of those places in 
the city which had been derived from them were 
directed to be changed. Thus the very name of 
this wealthy, noble, and influential family was to 
be forgotten in Florence, or remembered only with 
abhorrence 1 

It was Lorenzo himself — ^the man they had most 
deeply injured — ^who first forgave them, and even-* 
tually restored them to their former rank. With a 
forbearance and humanity that did him honour, he 
had not only rescued some of his enemies from the 
fury of the people, but showed much pity and for- 
giveness to the families of those who had been 

Florence, under the sway of Lorenzo de Medici, 

arrived at a high degree of prosperity, and became 

renowned as the seat of learning and the fine arts. 

Hia fellow-citizenSj who regarded him with pride 


and adTection, conferred upon him the title of 
" Magnificent." He had several children ; one of 
whom, made an abbot before he was eight years 
old, and a cardinal when only thirteen, was 
afterwards the famous pope Leo the Tenth. 
Another^ son, whom he named Giuliano, after his 
lamentea brother, allied himself by marriage with 
the royal family of France, and became Duke de 

No. II. 


" Drawing again, child ! did I not tell thee I 
would not have it ? thou wilt never get on in life, 
Michael, if thus thou dost waste thy precious time ! " 
exclaimed Luigi Buonarotti, as he entered the room 
where his son was sitting. 

** I was so weary of my books. Sir," replied 
MichaeJ, a boy about eleven years of age ; " I con 
ceive law to be the very driest of all dry studies.' 
" That may be your opinion, foolish boy ; b 
dry or not, you must make up your mind to stu 
it. I have too many sons to allow of any whi 
sical likes or dislikes in the choice of a profess' 
and, as I informed you the other day, I intend 
to practise as a notary or advocate in Flore 


But see here ! " continued Buonarotti, as he took up 
from the desk various little drawings, " how your 
time and talents are wasted by such attempts as 
these ! Will trumpery like this ever gain you riches 
or honour? or even find you a livelihood ? — answer 
me, boy." 

" If you will place me with a painter, Sir, that 
trumpery shall be turned to good account," said 
Michael, rather proudly. " I have no fear of 
gaining a Uving, if I may devote my time and 
energies to the fine arts." 

" Fine arts ! " replied his father angrily, throwing 
the papers on the ground, ** put such folly out of 
your head, child. Our family was once noble and 
honoured in the land, and no son of mine, particu- 
larly my eldest son, shall disgrace it by idleness, 
or idle fancies, if I can prevent it. I shall have 
you thinking yourself a great artist, if you go on 


" Nay, father, not so ;" replied the boy, " but it 

is the great desire of my heart to be one." 

" Well, that you never will be, Michael, so rest 
content. To see you distinguished as a notary is 
the height of my ambition, as it must be of yo\K:«> " 
" Father J " said Micha.el earnestly^ ^^\eV, TDL^^^ ^ 



painter, and you shall have no cause to be ashamed 
of your son." 

" It is useless to ask it, child, my mind is made 
up. Attend to your books." 

He left the room, and the boy, with a sigh, 
turned to his studies. In a few minutes, however, 
he almost unconsciously sought the pencil, and was 
again employed in sketching. 

At length, the appointed tasks were accom- 
plished, and Michael, with joy putting aside the 
books which were so distasteful to him, left his 
home, and traversing the streets with rapid steps, 
wa3 ere long in the studi6 of the celebrated painter 
GhMandajo, then at the height of his reputation. 

To rare and various accomplishments Ghirlan- 
dajo joined the most amiable qualities. His fellow- 
citizens both admired and loved him, and he is 
spoken of as " the delight of the age in which he 
lived." He was the best colourist in fresco who 
had yet appeared; and though it is nearly five 
hundred years since he lived, his colours have stood 
extremely well to this day. He was also an excel- 
lent worker in mosaic, which, from its durability, 
he called " painting for eternity." And one of the 
cMaracteristics of this great i^intet was his diligent 


and progressive improvement ; every successive 
production was better than the last. 

To pass a little time in the studio of Ghirlandajo, 
was one of Michael's greatest enjoyments. He 
watched with intense interest each movement of 
the master's hand ; with admiration he observed 
the wonderful imitation of life and nature displayed 
in his pictures ; and more than ever he wished to 
be a painter. 

" Well, my boy," said Ghirlandajo to him one 
day, after Michael had been expressing such a wish 
to Francesco, one of the scholars of the artist, " you 
must ask your father to let you study with ^is." 

"Ah, Signer! he will never consent," replied 
-Michael; "he loves not painting; he holds the 
fine arts in ho esteem." 

"And you do? well, it is a pity you do not 
think alike on the subject," said Ghirlandajo 
kindly; "but you must endeavour to be satisfied 
with your father's plans for you, my boy. What 
is your profession to be?" 

" I am to study for the law," said Michael sadly. 
^* My father says I shall gain neither honour nor 
riches by painting; and that it is not every one 
who is bom to he a Griiirlanda30." 


" True enough," said the painter, smiling; ^* I 
trust that our beautiful art will flourish under 
names which will be remembered long after that 
of Ghirlandajo is forgotten. Give your best ener- 
gies to the study of the law, Michael, as your 
father desires it ; remember, one may have a taste 
for the fine arts, without having any genius for 

Michael, however, could not follow this advice. 
While his books were in his hand, his thoughts 
were in the painter's studio. Having formed a 
friendship with Francesco Granacci, one of the best 
pupils of Ghirlandajo, he borrowed from him models 
and drawings. These he took home to his little 
chamber, and studied them in secret with such per- 
severing assiduity and consequent improvement, 
that Francesco, when be saw them, was quite sur- 
prised and delighted. He was still speaking warmly 
of their merits, when Ghirlandajo himself stepped 
into the apartment. 

" Here, Granacci," he said hastily, " I want you 

to alter the expression in this mouth ; it is too severe 

and — What have you here, Francesco ? these draw^ 

• ings are excellent, — and these figures, there is life 

in them 1 tbey are not your doing, Granacci ? I see 


they are by a young hand, but there is great 
genius there ! none of my pupils could give such 
touches as those. To whom do they belong, Gra- 
nacci? who has done this?" 

" Michael Buonarotti," said Francesco, bringing 
forward the boy, who had been listening with 
trembling eagerness to the artist's words. " Ought 
he not to be a painter, Signor?" 

"He ought — he must!" replied Ghirlandajo. 
" Michael, I see you have genius as well as taste," 
continued the great master, looking proudly and 
kindly on the boy; "you must cultivate your 
talents ; say, will you give up the law, and come 
to be my pupil?" 

"Ah, Signor!" said Michael, with sparkling 
eyes and clasped hands, "how gladly! — but my 

" I will plead your cause with your father," said 
the artist, " I will go to him this day, Michael. 
These beginnings shadow forth great things, or I 
am much mistaken. But remember, my boy, with- 
out steady perseverance and diligent study you will 
accomplish nothing. Genius without industry is of 
little worth." 

It required much persuasion on t\ift 'paxt oi ^o?csi- 


landajo to gain Luigi Buonarotti^s consent that his 
son should exchange the study of the law for that 
of painting. At length, however, the old man 
reluctantly agreed to it. 

"It is a pity Michael has taken such a fancy 
into his head," said he, " but I suppose it must be 
as he wishes. Young as he is, he has a stem 
inflexible temper, Signor Ghirlandajo; it is not 
easy to turn his mind from any object on which it 
is once set, and the pencil has been his delight 
from a child. But I am not rich, Signor, and 
I have a large family ; — ^perhaps we may not agree 
as to terms. What remuneration do you demand 
for the instruction of my son ?" 

"None whatever," replied Ghirlandajo; "on the 
contrary, if Michael is bound to me as my regular 
pupil for three years, I agree to pay you six golden 
florins for the first year, eight for the second, and 
twelve for the third ; and I do this because I expect 
great advantage from your son's labours. I am 
sure I am not mistaken in him ; he will be a great 

" Say you so, Signor?" replied the old man with 

rather an incredtdous smile ; " well, I trust he will 

not disappoint you. Thanks for your kindness and 


liberality. The boy's heart will overflow with 
happiness at this change in his vocation." 

Michael waa fourteen when, to his inexpressible 
delight, he was thus received into the studio of the 
discerning and liberal-minded Ghirlandajo, who 
at once commenced his instructions with a pupil 
destined to fill not only Italy, but all Europe with 
his fame — ^the celebrated Michael Angelo Buona- 
lotti, commonly called Michael Angelo, — as a 
sculptor, an architect, and a painter, unques- 
tionably the greatest master that ever lived. 

At Aat time Lorenzo the Magnificent reigned 
over Florence. In his palace and gardens was a 
fine collection of antique marbles, busts, and statues, 
which the princely owner converted into an academy 
for the use of young artists. Michael Angelo was 
one of the first who, through the reconmiendation 
of Ghirlandajo, was received into this new academy. 
This was a great gratification to the youth. He 
had hitherto devoted himself chiefly to drawing, 
but the sight of the many ^lendid works of art in 
the Medicean gardens determined him to turn his 
attention to sculpture. He was then not quite 

Whatever Michael Angelo did, \i^ \xvb&L Xa ^^ 



well. With the fervour and the energy natural to 
his character, he now began first to model in clay, 
and then to copy in marble, some of the works of 
art before him. They were surprising productions 
for one so young. 

Having found one day the statue of a laughing 
faun considerably mutilated and without a head, 
the youthful artist resolved to try if he could 
restore to it what was wanting. He succeeded 
admirably. Lorenzo, who often visited the gardens, 
was much struck with this display of genius, and 
inquired whose work it was. 

" It is executed by one of Ghirlandajo's pupils/' 
was the reply. " He and Granacci were the two 
he deemed most worthy of entering your academy, 
Signor. His name is Michael Angelo." 

" I should like to see the youth," observed 
Lorenzo, who stood gazing at the statue ; " there is 
great talent and genius here." 

Michael Angelo was summoned. 

" So, Angelo," said Lorenzo the Magnificent, 
^* I perceive you have a taste for sculpture? That 
head does you credit." 

Michael's dark eyes glittered. "It is a noble 
art!'' he replied with enthusiasm, " By allowing 


me the honour of entering these gardens, excellent 
Signor, you have, as it were, raised a new spirit 
within me." 

Lorenzo smiled. A great lover of the art of 
sculpture himself, he was pleased with the youth's 
evident devotion to it. 

" Do you prefer it then to painting?" he asked. 

" I do," replied Michael Angelo. " It is to me 
so much more wonderftd and sublime." 

" I see you have not exactly imitated the original 
in that head," observed Lorenzo, "the lips are 
smoother, and you have shown the teeth. But," 
he added with a smile, " you should have remem- 
bered, Angelo, that old men seldom exhibit a com- 
plete set of teeth." 

He passed on ; and the young artist, who paid no 
less respect to the judgment than to the rank of 
Lorenzo, was no sooner left to himself, than he 
struck out one of the teeth, giving to the part the 
appearance of its having been lost by age. 

On his next visit, Lorenzo, seeing this, and 
-equally delighted with the disposition as with the 
genius of his young pupil, at once determined to 
take him under his especial patronage. " Angelo," 
he «aid, "jour peraeverance an^ VxsvYt^N^'o^'SQX. 



merit my regard. In order to give you every 
advantage, I am wiUing to receive you into my 
own service, undertake the entire care of your 
education, and bring you up in my palace as my 
son. What say you ? ' ' 

What could Michael Angelo say to such a gene- 
rous, flattering proposal ! With heartfelt gratitude 
he thanked his noble patron, and then spoke of his 

"I wiU see your father on the subject," said 
Lorenzo. " I trust he will not object to my wishes." 

He sent for the old man, and gained his consent 
to the plan on condition that he himself should 
receive an office under government. Accordingly, 
Michael Angelo was lodged in the palace of the 
Medici, where he remained for three years. He 
was ever treated with paternal kindness by Lorenzo, 
and had the advantage of associating with the first 
literary characters of the age. 

But Michael Angelo, with all his genius, was not 
of a very amiable disposition. His temper was 
proud and haughty ; his speech too often contemp- 
tuous and sarcastic. He felt his own great powers 
of mind, and too frequently indulged in satire 
towards those who were not so gifted as himself. 


Lorenzo the Magnificent died, and Michael An- 
gelo, thrown on his own resources, studied more 
diligently than ever. Secluded, temperate and 
fingai in his habits, stem and unbending in his 
character, he suffered nothing to divert his mind 
from that on which it was set — ^his improvement in 
the art of sculpture. 

About this time there was some sensation caused 
amongst the lovers of the fine arts in Rome, by 
the arrival in that city of a statue of extraordinary 
beauty. It was a Sleeping Cupid in marble ; and 
great was the admiration bestowed upon it. 

" It is a genuine antique," said one grave con- 
noisseur in such things ; " there is no mistaking it." 

" Certainly not," observed another ; " how infi- 
nitely superior is it to anything which art in this 
day is capable of producing !" 

" It was found in a vineyard near Florence, I 
understand," said a third ; " a peasant, while dig- 
ging, came upon this exquisite proof of ancient 
skill and genius. It is a pity the arm has been 
broken off. The Duchess of Mantua much desires 
it for her cabinet, I hear ; but the Cardinal San 
Giorgio has already purchased it at a high price. 
He is charmed with its beauty J*' 



" My friends," said a noblelnan, as he entered 
the hall with hasty steps, " what do you think I 
have heard just now? that this 'real antique,' which 
has 80 delighted us all, is the work of a young man 
of two-and-twenty, residing at Florence ! " 

The group round the statue actually started with 

"Is it possible ?" they exclaimed ; " has one in 
our own day executed this splendid work ! It is 
marvellous ! Are you sure you are not imposed 
upon, Ricciardi?" 

'* Quite sure. The young sculptor has produced 
the missing arm, and given undoubted proofs of 
his veracity. The cardinal has invited him to 
Rome immediately." 

" And what may be the name of this young 
man ?" 

"His name is Michael Angelo." 

During his first residence in the imperial city, 
Michael Angelo, surrounded by so many beautifiil 
remains of antiquity, applied to his studies with 
unceasing energy and increasing diligence. He 
executed several works, which added greatly to his 
reputation, particularly a grou^j called the Pieth^ 


whicli is now in the church of St. Peter's at 

A little time after the Pieth had been fixed in 
its place, the young artist went one afternoon to 
consider the effect of his work. As he stood before 
it, surveying it with a critical yet partial eye, and 
with a consciousness that he should yet do greater 
things than that, two strangers entered the church. 
Struck with admiration at the beautifal group pre- 
sented to their view, they expressed, with Italian 
warmth and fervour, their great and unqualified 

'* What an exquisite work !" cried one. " Truly 
it is a masterpiece ! What form ! what proportion ! 
what excellent grouping ! I never saw anything 
to compare with it !" 

"Wonderful!" said the other, after contem- 
plating it for some time in silent admiration. 
" What a mind must the man have who executed 
this I Who is the sculptor?" 

" One from Bologna ; at this moment I remem- 
ber not his name." 

" Nay, my friend, I rather think he is a Floren- 
tine. Surely I have heard so." 

"You are miataken^ Bemandmo'^ \ wsi ^^^- 


yinced Bologna has the honour of being his 
birth-place ; I shall bethink me of his name 

" Well, any one in Rome can tell us that, fortu- 
nately. There is a young man will set us right, 

" Ah ! let us not ask him ; he might laugh at our 
ignorance ; or he might not know himself. We 
will find it out. The name of that man ought 
never to be forgotten." 

" It shall not be forgotten here, at all events," 
said Michael Angelo, as the strangers left the 
church ; " the Pieth shall not again be mistaken for 
the work of the Bolognese." 

That night, when the mighty city slept, a young 
man of haughty bearing entered the church, with a 
lantern in his hand. He approached the beautiful 
piece of sculpture, and smiled proudly, as in deep 
indelible characters he inscribed on it, where it 
might best be seen — the name of Michael Angelo. 
This Pieth is the only one of his works thus 

Amongst the ruins of ancient Rome is a splen- 
did equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius. It is of 
Aronze, and was originally giilmtfcL thick leaves of 



gold. The attitude of the horse, and the fire and 
spirit displayed in it, are remarkably fine. When 
first Michael Angelo saw it, he looked at it for some 
time in silence, and then suddenly exclaimed, " Go 
on !" — ^thus stamping this famous statue with his 
enthusiastic admiration. 

A very excellent painter lived at this time in 
Florence, whose name was Leonardo da Vinci. 
Italy was justly proud of this illustrious artist, and 
JFrancis I. of France loaded him with favours. It 
has been said — but the story is a doubtful one — 
— ^that he died in the arms of that monarch at 
Fontainbleau. Certain it is, that the king held 
him in high esteem, and justly admired his great 
and extraordinary talents. 

Slowly fading away firom the wall of the refec- 
tory of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, at 
Milan, is one of the most celebrated pictures of this 
great master. The subject is a solemn one — the 
Last Supper; and solemnly it is treated. The 
skilful arrangement of the figures, which are larger 
than life, and the amazing beauty of the workman- 
ship, arrest the attention and astonish the eye of the 
beholder. It has thus been spoken of: " On viewing 
it, one hewi, one. face, one attitude, oxv& ^:s::gt«sji^s5ft.> 



comes forcibly upon the sight, and sinks deeply 
into the mind, till every thought and feeling 
is absorbed in wonder at the power which could 
represent so sublime a figure in so sublime a 

"In the glorious serenity of that countenance 
is beheld the history of the pardoned Magdalene^ 
the reproof of the self-sufficient Pharisee ; there may 
be read, as in a scroll, lessons of charity and peace, 
so ill followed, though so often cited by erring men, 
who, while they respect the gentle words of that 
Divine tongue, allow the spirit to evaporate. 
There are patience, and forbearance, and endurance 
— there are knowledge, and power, and prescience 
— there is deep grief for treachery and crime — and, 
above all, there is pity and forgiveness." 

Such is, or rather was, this beautifiil painting ; 
— ^it is fading from sight now, but from the nume- 
rous copies taken from it no picture is more uni- 
versally known and celebrated. 

Leonardo da Vinci, like Michael Angelo, had 

astonishing powers of mind. He was great as a 

mathematician, a mechanic, an architect, a chemist, 

an enffineer, a musician, a i^oet, and a painter! 


From a child his singular talents attracted notice ; 
but he had not the perseverance of Michael Angelo. 
His magnificent designs and projects were seldom 
completed. He began many beautifdl and won- 
derful works, and then, dissatisfied with them, left 
them unfinished. This highly giffced man and 
Michael Angelo were rivals. With all their admi- 
ration of each other's genius, they were jealous of 
the distinction each had obtained. The haughty 
spirit of the one could not brook superiority, or even 
equality ; the temper of the other was capricious 
and sensitive. Leonardo was many years older 
than Angelo, and did not feel pleased that so 
young a man should come forward as his compe- 
titor. One day, being annoyed at some remark 
made by his rival, he replied with warmth, " You 
will remember, Angelo, I was famous before you 
were bom!" 

It was announced one day in Florence that the 
wall of the great council hall was to be painted in 
fresco ; and the artist who produced the best car- 
toon should be appointed to the work. Michael 
Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci, equally desirous of 
the honour, resolved to compete for it. Each pre- 
pared his cartoon ; each emuloxxa oi \)cifc i«xs!kfc^ ^ssA. 


fully aware of the extraordinary abilities of his 
rival, threw all his best powers into his work, de- 
termined, if possible; to surpass himself. It was a 
deeply interesting contest-a struggle for fame 
between the two first artists of the age. Each 
chose a difierent subject, and each, bending all his 
energies to the task, succeeded in producing a 
wonderful specimen of his peculiar skill and 

The cartoons, when finished, met with the high- 
est admiration; but the preference was given to 
that of Leonardo da Vinci. 

From all parts of Italy the young artists flocked 
to study these magnificent compositions. 

The wall of the council hall was, however, never 
painted. It is said that Leonardo spent so much 
time in trying experiments and preparing the wall, 
that at length, changes in the Government occur- 
ring, the design was abandoned. 

The Pope at this time was Julius 11. Though 
seventy-four years of age, he was impatient 
of contradiction, fiery in temper, full of magni- 
ficent and ambitious projects, and of a most ener- 
getic cast of character. He sent for Michael 


" I wish thee to erect a splendid monument to 
my memory," said he ; " thou art well able to per- 
form the task ; see thou doest me justice/' 

The sculptor commenced his work, and the pon- 
tiff was deUghted. 

" Thou hast wonderfiil abilities, assuredly, Mi- 
chael Angelo ! " he said to him one day, as he 
watched him with eager interest, '* how thou dost 
make the marble fly, man ! Truly, it is as if thou 
wert angry with it for concealing the statue I There 
is something of my own energy in thee, Michael. 
But I hear thou art as great with the brush as with 
the chisel ! — Come with me ; I have a work for thee 
to execute in that way also." 

"If your Holiness will allow me to finish these 
strokes first," said Michael Angelo, quietly going 
on with his task. 

The impatient pope was compelled to wait the 
sculptor's pleasure, and then he carried him off 
to the famous Sistine Chapel. 

" See here !". he exclaimed, as they entered the 
building together, "this chapel, erected thirty 
years ago by Sixtus the Fourth, is not yet 
completed. Though the walls are decorated, the 
ceiling remains without an omamexvX.* TtL\%^^''^^ 


not be. Thou must paint it in fresco, Michael 

The artist gazed upwards at the enormous vault, 
and then replied, "Your Holiness requires a great 
work and a work of time." 

"Great ! that is the very reason I give it thee !" 
said the pontiff; "what is work to one like thee? 
thou canst do anything thou wilt. This ceiling 
is, as perhaps thou knowest, one hundred and fifty 
feet long, and fifty broad, and I desire that thou 
shouldest represent thereon a series of subjects con- 
nected with sacred history, so as to cover the whole 
space. Canst thou — nay, I need not say canst 
thou, but wilt thou undertake the work ?" 

The great master paused one instant, and then 
replied, "I can, and will." 

"That is well," said the pontiff; "but at what 
art thou gazing so earnestly, Angelo ? What dost 
thou see in that painting of Ghirlandajo's ? 

"I see the hand of my old master, your HolinesSj 
but yet should scarcely recognise it. How inferior 
is this to his later productions! how continuous and 
steady was his improvement ! " 

"So it should be," replied Pope Julius; "what 
J^ave great artists to do but improve ? Now think 


over thy designs for this ceiling, Angelo ; great as 
thou art already, I prophesy this will add some- 
what to thy renown." 

Michael Angelo continued his work on the mau- 
soleum, till the pope, prejudiced by one of the 
artist's enemies, — and he had several, — ^no longer 
visited him as formerly, and neglected to supply 
him with the necessary funds. Not being able on 
two occasions to obtain access to the pontiff, and 
having been treated rather superciliously by one 
of the servants, Michael Angelo's haughty spirit 

**Go," he said, to one of his attendants, "and 
take thi^ message to the Vatican; — that if his Holi- 
ness desires to see Michael Angelo, he must send 
to seek him elsewhere than in Kome. — Now, Ur- 
bino, dispose of my property ; sell my goods to the 
Jews ; I leave for Florence to-day." 

He started for that city, but had not proceeded 
many miles on his roadj when, one after another, 
five couriers arrived from Pope Julius, with com- 
mands, threats, persuasions, and promises, to induce 
him to return, but in vain ; Michael Angelo turned 
a deaf ear to all they said, and determinately con- 
tinued his journey. 



He had not been long in Florence, before three 
more messengers came from the pontiff, insisting 
on his return ; but the inflexible artist absolutely 
reftised. "Inform his Holiness," said he, "that I 
have accepted a commission from the Sultan of 
Turkey to build a bridge at Constantinople. I 
therefore cannot comply with the wishes of his 

Then the pope wrote to Soderini, who was at the 
head of the government at Florence, commanding 
him, on pain of his extreme displeasure, to send 
Michael Angelo back to him. Soderini, fearing the 
pontiff's anger, at length, with difficulty, prevailed 
on the offended artist to return, but not till three 
months had been spent in vain negotiations. 

The pope was at supper, in Bologna, when a 
servant informed him Michael Angelo had arrived. 

"Oh! at last! bring him instantly to our pre- 
sence ! " he exclaimed in an impatient tone. " He 
shall answer for this conduct !" 

"What does this mean I" continued the fiery old 
pontiff, as Michael Angelo appeared before him ; 
** instead of obeying our command, and coming to 
us, thou hast waited till we came in search of 


"Pardon me, holy" father," said Michael Angelo, 
falling on his knees, and speaking in a loud voice, 
"my offence has not been caused by an evil nature; 
I could no longer endure the insults offered to me 
in the palace of your Holiness." 

He continued kneeling, and the pope in silence 
bent his angry brows upon him, wishing to forgive, 
doubtless, if he could do so without losing his dig- 
nity. At this moment, a bishop who was standing 
by, thinking he could mediate between the parties, 
observed in a pitying tone, "It is through igno- 
rance he has erred, poor man ; pardon him, holy 
father ; artists are ever apt to presume too much 
upon their genius." 

"Who told thee to interfere ?" said the irascible 
pope, bestowing on him at the same time a hearty 
blow with his staff, " it is thou that art ignorant 
and presuming, to insult one whom we delight 
to honour ; take thyself out of our sight ! " 

As the terrified prelate stood speechless with 
amazement, the attendants led him from the room. 
Then Pope Julius, turning to Michael Angelo, said 
in a mild voice," We grant thee our forgiveness and 
our blessing, my son ; but thou must never again 
leave us. Be obedient to our Vi^^^^^ «xA ^ ^iS^ 


times, and on all occasions, thou shalt have our 
favour and protection." 

A short time after this extraordinary scene, Pope 
Julius, ever willing .to employ the talents of the 
great sculptor, commanded him to execute a colos- 
sal statue of himself for the front of the principal 
church in Bologna. It was in bronze ; and Michael 
Angelo threw into the figure and attitude so much 
haughtiness and resolution, and gave such an ex- 
pression of terrible majesty to the countenance, that 
Julius, when he saw his character thus portrayed, 
could not help smiling. 

"Am I uttering a blessing or a curse?" he said 
to the sculptor. 

" It is my wish to represent your Holiness as 
admonishing the people of Bologna to submission," 
replied Michael Angelo. 

"Good!" said the pope, gazing well pleased 
on the statue; "but what wilt thou place in my 
hand?" -. ' 

"A book, may it please your Holiness." 

"A book, man I" exclaimed the old pontiff, "put 
rather a sword; thou knowest I am no scho- 


"Now then, Michael Angelo," said the energetic 
Pope Julius on their return to Rome, " thou must 
forthwith commence the decoration of the vaulted 
ceiling in the Sistine Chapel." 

"Should not the mausoleum be first completed?" 
said the artist, who preferred the practice of sculp- 
ture to that of painting, and much desired to decline 
the task assigned to him. 

"By no means," replied Julius ; "there is no 
hurry for the monument ; I am yet alive and vigor- 
ous ; but I wish to see the completion of the chapel. 
I desire that the pontificate of Julius the Second 
should be remembered." 

"It is a grand task, and should be grandly 
executed," said the artist. " Some other hand than 
mine may give your Holiness satisfaction. There 

is Raphael " 

"He is otherwise engaged for us, thou knowest," 
said the j)ope in an angry tone; "I tell thee, Mi- 
chael Angelo, thOu, and none else, shalt perform the 
work ; so say no more concerning it." 

Th; painter, fearful of again incensing the pontiff 
by opposing his will, reluctantly submitted to it ; 
and deeply impressed with a sense of the vast- 
nesB BJid grandeur of the task coiaTDj^\«&L \r» ^sssss.^ 



commenced his cartoons. As he was then inexpe- 
rienced in the mechanical part of the art of fresco, 
he invited from Florence several eminent painters, 
to execute his designs under his own directions. 
They, however, could not reach the grandeur of 
his conceptions ; and, disappointed and vexed, Mi- 
chael Angelo one morning, in a fit of impatience, 
turned them all out of the chapel, destroyed all they 
had done, and determined to execute the whole 
himself. He accordingly shut himself up, and with 
incredible perseverance and energy proceeded to 
accomplish this great work alone, even preparing 
the colours with his own hands. 

When the ceiling was about half completed. Pope 
Julius, whose impatience to see it had been very 
great, insisted on admittance to the chapel. The 
subUme and magnificent performance which met 
his eye when he entered, excited his deepest admi- 
ration and astonishment. 

"Thou hast actually surpassed thyself, Michael 
Angelo! "he exclaimed with delight; "great as 
were my expectations, this exceeds them all ! " 

Two or three persons had found admission with 

Pope Julius into the chapel, and unrepressed and 

ardent were their expreaaiona of delight and sur- 


prise also. But there was one who in silent admi- 
ration gazed upwards, who comprehended better 
than any other the extreme ffrandeur and beauty of 
the pig. This wa. . young man of grai 
form and handsome expressive features. With 
dark eyes and luxuriant hair, he had so sweet and 
serene a countenance, as to be termed by some, 
"angelic," His face was a mirror of the mind with- 
in. Bright, talented, generous, and gentle, he pos- 
sessed the most attractive manners with the mogt 
winning modesty. So amiable was his disposition, 
that " not only all men, but the very brutes loved 
him; the only very distinguished man of whom 
we read, who lived and died without am enemy or 

Tet,. young as he was, and modest as was his 
disposition, from one end of Italy to the other his 
name was known and celebrated. For this was 
" the prince of painters" — one whose fame eventu- 
^y filled the world— Raphael ^anzio d'Urbino, 

{Che qxiick glance of Michael Angelo soon noticed 
the young artist; and when Pope Julius had de- 
parted, he approached the spot where he stood, lost 
in admiratiojQ. There was no rivalry between 
•thero, thei7, JkCchael Angelp^ .t^^^gja., Vx^ ^JsvNsrivv 


he cared not for praise, and despised flattery, could 
appreciate the genius of Raphael, and was not 
indifferent to his opinion. It was needless to ask 
it on this occasion ; the speaking countenance of 
the young artist was enough. With infinite sweet- 
ness and candour he thus addressed the great mas- 
ter, older than himself by some years ; — 

" I can but be thankfol,** he said, joy flashing 
firom his eyes, " that I am bom in the same age 
with so great ah artist as Michael Angelo, and may 
be enabled to profit by the grand creations of so 
sublime a genius ! " 

Michael Angelo was satisfied. He valued those 
few iV^fdfe 'moi^'^i^an all the commendations of 
Pope Julius n. And well he might ; for who 
coidd judge like Raphael? Vhat pairitfer has ever 
equalled himf 

Pope Julius, anxious to secure the talents of 
such an artist in his service, had invited, or rather 
ordered Raphael to Rome, to decorate the cham^ 
bers of the Vatican. The Vatican is the palace of 
the Pope. It contains four thousand apartments, 
twelve greiat halls, eight grand staircases, and two 
limidie& lesser oiies, a coilidor about a thousand 

in Jdagtik, « mtiaeum, anA. «ii YCEL\QL<»^gie library 

tAe pope and the paikteb. 67 

of 80,000 l>ookB, and 24,000 manuscripts. Bat 
the chamWs decorated bj Raphael are the glory 
o£ the Vatican. Those sublime paintings, the ridb 
creations of his wonderM mind, have been the 
admiration of all ages. 

With renewed energy Michael Angelo now con- 
tinued his work in the Sistine Chapel ; but rapid 
as was his progress with it, it was not rapid enough 
to suit the impatient Pontiff. 

" Thou art slow, man, thou art slow ! " said he 
one day to the indefatigable artist ; '*^ we desire to 
see this great work completed in our lifetime, but 

at this rate of progress ^tell me, when dost thou 

intend to finish it?" 

** When I can," calmly replied Michael Angelo. 

**When thou canst!" exclaimed the fiery old 
Pope ; '^ STurely thou hast a mind that I should have 
Ace thrown from the scaffold.** 

** Then should I never have the honour of com- 
pleting it for your Holiness," quietly observed the 

The wishes of Pope Julius were, however, grati- 
led ; and not long after, the ceiling was uncovered 
J public view. 

In the incredibly short tiim^ oi ts^iw^-'^^ 


jnoiitli3, Michael Angelo had performed, his sublin 
and' magnificent task ! The Sistine Chapel Wi 
opened ; and when the people of Rome, by hiu 
iireds and thousands, poured in to view the artist 
work, their delight and . admiration knew i 
Jbounda. With reverence and astonishment tht 
gazed at it, and pronounced it unparalleled in tl 
history of art. 

' The following year Pope Julius 11. died, ai 
vWas succeeded by Leo X., son of Lorenzo ti 
Magnificent. This was the Pope who permitt< 
the sale of indulgences, or pardon for sins, again 
which Luther so boldly protested. 

You have heard of the Church of St. Peter's, 
Rome? Those who look upon it cannot suffic 
ently admire the vast genius and majestic intelle 
of the man who was its chief architect. That mj 

.was Michael Angelo. Wonderful as a painter ai 
a sculptor, he was yet more wonderful as an arcl 
tect. St. Peter's may be pronounced the xno 
jnagnificent structure ever raised by man. 
' When remimeration was offeued the great ma 
ter while engaged on the building^ he constant 

(Reclined it^ " Jfo," he s^id, .^^ I am employed in 


work of piety ; and, for my own honour and the 
honour of God, I refuse all emolument." 

On leaving Florence to build the dome of St. 
Peter's, Angelo turned his horse round to contem- 
plate once more, in the grey of the morning, the 
beautiful city and its far-famed cathedral. He 
gazed long on the glorious cupola, rising from 
amidst the pines and cypresses, and then said, 
with a feeling of the deepest admiration, " Like 
thee I will not build one ; better than thee I 
cannot ! " 

His tomb, in the Church of Santa Croce, was 
marked out by himself, in such a manner that from 
it might be seen, when the doors of the church 
stood open, that grand and noble edifice. 

The character of Michael Angelo was no common 
one. To the last hour of his life — and he lived to 
be very old — he was striving after excellence in his 
art. Ever endeavouring to improve, with resolute 
energy of mind and purpose he was still pressing 
on to his standard of perfection. In allusion to his 
own infirmities, this mighty master made a draw- 
ing, representing an aged man in a go-cart, with 
these words underneath, — Still tearfiing. 


On the 6th of April, 1520, there were tears and 
great lamentations in the " Eternal City." All 
dasses of men mourned the death of one, cut off in 
the prime of life, and in the midst of vast under- 
takings. The generous, the high-minded, the be- 
loved and admired Baphael was no more! But 
much as all mourned him, the grief of his schohirs 
was unspeakable. 

From all parts of Italy they had come to study 
under this " paints of painters." No less than a 
train of fifty artists attended him from his own 
house to the Vatican, when he went to court ; at- 
tended on him with a love, and reverence, and 
duty, far beyond that usually paid to princes. 

And such was the influence of Baphael's benign 
temper, that all his numerous scholars lived to- 
gether in perfect harmony and friendship. No 
jealousies disturbed their peace. All was generous 
emulation. Each strove to excel; each endea- 
voured to catch some faint reflection of the grace, 
Mid beauty, and power, which characterized the 
works of their great master. 

" Father," said little Octavio Mazzola, as he 
and his jparent walked slowly along the banks of 


the Tiber, "do 70U think Pope Lep is very sorry 
that the great painter is no.more?" 

" He is deeply grieved, my son. During Ra- 
phaeVs iUness he ^ent every day to inquire after his 
health, and when informed of the fatal termination, 
broke out into bitter lamentations. ' Alas ! ' he 
exclaimed, ' what an irreparable loss to me ! what 
a misfortune to the world ! Where shall I find a 
second Eaphael ! ' " 

" But he still has the great Michael Angelo*" 

" True ; but Pope Leo much preferred the grace- 
ful and amiable Raphael to the stem, imbending 
Michael Angelo. The character of the latter 
painter accorded more with that of Pope Julius." 

" Well, there is Titian — the celebrated portrait- 
painter, Titian ; why does not his Holiness invite 
him to Rome?" 

" He has done so, but Titian prefers remaining 
in Venice." 

" Then there was Leonardo da Vinci, who died 
last year, did not he please Pope Leo?*' 

" No ; his Holiness invited him to court, but was 
annoyed by his dilatory habits in executing the 
works intrusted to him; and Leonardo, taking 
offence at some slight on the part oC t3afc"2^"\sNaSl^VSx 


him, to enter the service of King Francis I. When 
here, Leonardo used to pass many an hour with 
Raphael, whilst he was engaged on the frescoes of 
the Vatican ; he ever treating the venerable old 
man with respect and deference." 

" Ah, there was no one like Raphael ! I loved 
him most, father, for painting so many beautiful 
pictures from the Bible. How sad it was he should 
die when he was only thirty-seven ! " 

*^ It was ; and yet, Octavio, how much he per- 
formed during his short life ! a life of incessant and 
persevering study. He has left behind him some 
hundreds of pictures and drawings, to immortalize 
his name. They are chiefly on sacred subjects, for 
in those his pure and pensive mind delighted ; and 
surely never were such portrayed, so beautiftdly, 
so poetically, and so intelligibly, as by Raphael. 
Besides his grand compositions from the Bible, he 
has painted no less than one hundred and twenty 
pictures of the Madonna — all varied, and all exqui- 
sitely beautiful." 

" And the painting we saw suspended over his 
dead body, as it lay on the bed of state, was his 
last ! the Transfiguration — oh, father ! what a glori- 
OU8 picture it is ! but he did not live to finish it." 

THE POPE And the painter. 73 

" Alas ! no. The task of completing his un- 
finished works he has bequeathed to his two favour- 
ite pupils, Giulio Romano and Francisco Penni. 
Romano imitates his master's manner so success- 
fully, that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish 
the difierence of hand. He has copied his portrait 
of Pope Julius IT. most admirably. One can 
hardly look at it without fear.* Penni, who was 
much beloved by Raphael, assisted him greatly in 
preparing his cartoons." 

" Oh, those famous cartoons ! do you remember 
how every one rejoiced last year, when the tapes- 
tries worked from them were first exhibited, and 
what wonder and applause they excited in the city? 
Bianca and I stood for a whole hour, looking at 
* The Death of Ananias.' And then my mother 
gave us a feast in honour of the day ! How happy 
we all were ! and how many times we wished Ra- 
phael health and joy! And when we took that 
splendid bouquet of flowers to his house in the 
evening, how kindly he spoke to us ! The good 
and gentle Raphael! Where are the cartoons 
themselves, father ? " 

** In Flanders. You know they were sent to 
♦ This portrait is now in o\ir 15alioiis\ C^^ers » 



Arras, to be copied in tapestry work for the walls 
of the Sistine Chapel." 

'^ I wonder such a patron of the fine arts as Leo 
X. allows them to remain there; for surely the 
cartoons must be more precious than the tapestry, 
beautiful as it is?" 

" Most true, Octavio ; yet these rich tapestries 
cost Pope Leo 50,000 golden ducats, while Baphael 
received for his incomparable cartoons but 434."* 

" It is pleasing to think how all the great paint- 
ers loved Raphael." 

"All, with the exception of Michael Angelo, 
who looked upon him as his rival. The amiable 
and talented II Francia, though thirty-four years 
older than Eaphael, was much attached to him, 
and styled him * the painter above all painters.' 
A few years since our great artist sent his famous 
picture of St. Cecilia to Bologna, for the church in 
that city. In a letter fall of affection he recom- 
mended his picture to the care of his firiend Francia, 
entreating him to be present when the case was 
opened, to repair any injury it might have sus- 
tained on the journey, and modestly begging that 
he would correct what appeared to him faulty in 

^ Seven of these famous cartoonB are in Hampton Court. 


the execution ; concluding liis letter thus : — ' Con- 
tinue to love me, as I love you, with all my heart.' 
When the case was opened, and Francia beheld 
this masterpiece of the great Baphael, he burst 
into transports of admiration and delight, exclaim- 
ing, ' Correct ! this far exceeds all I ever even 

Some year^ after this, the famous Correggio 
visited Bologna, where he saw Raphael's St. Ce- 
cilia; after contemplating it for some time with 
deep admiration, he turned away, exclaiming, 
" And I, too, am a painter 1 " 

"And the poet Ariosto and Fra Bartolomeo 
were his intimate friends, were they not?" 

" Yes ; Baphael and Fra Bartolomeo, when 
younff, mutually instructed each other, Baphael 
LdtaLg his friend in the softer blending of his 
colours, and in return teaching Bartolomeo perspec- 
tive. Modesty was one great charm in Baphael's 
character: superior as he was, he was not too 
proud to learn. Some time since, Fra Bartolomeo 
having so often heard of the great works of his 
firiend, and of Michael Angelo, in this city, could 
no longer refrain from seeing their wonderful pro- 
ductions. What he beheld in the Y«ii1i'5j»si ^s^i'^JaR. 




Sistine Chapel so infinitely surpassed all his pre- 
vious conceptions, that . he was quite overwhelmed 
with astonishment and admiration. There was no 
envy in his gentle mind, but from that day he could 
paint no more ! His energy was gone ; and he re- 
turned to Florence, leaving two unfinished pictures 
here, which the generous and kind-hearted Raphael 
undertook, in the midst of all his numerous works, 
to finish for him." 

" I suppose Fra Bartolomeo was quite discou- 
raged," said Octavio ; " did he ever paint again ?" 

" Yes, he roused himself; and his finest works 
date from his visit to Rome." 

" Pope Leo has been very fortunate, I think, in 
bringing so many great men into his capital." 

" Francis I. wished to attract Raphael to his 
court, but not succeeding, he desired to have a 
picture by his hand* The artist sent him a mag- 
nificent one, which so pleased the king that he 
rewarded him munificently, expressing his satisfac- 
tion in a royal and gracefal fashion. Raphael, 
considering himself overpaid — and with a heart 
generous and liberal as Francis himself— made the 
monarch a present of his famous picture of the Holy 
luailjr, adding also another, in Compliment to 

s « 


Margaret, the kipg's favourite sister. When the 
pictures wei^ placed before the royal Francis, he 
was perfectly, delighted ; — ' Count me out 3,000/. 
for the incomparable Raphaely' be exclaimed to his 
treasurer, ' and send it to him, with the strongest 
expressions of our approbation. He deserves to be 
crowned as prince of painter^,' — But see, here 
comes the little Bianca ; run to meet her, my boy, 
and help her to gather flowers for her nosegay." 

The father of Michael Angelo had no reason to 
fear his son's disgracing their once noble family. 
The acknowledged worth and genius of that son, — 
his wide-spread fame and unblemished integrity, — 
combined with the haughty reserve of his deport- 
ment to invest liim with a sort of princely dignity. 
Men vied with each other in doing him honour ; 
the nobles of the land stood unpovered in his 
presence. The popes Julius II., Leo X., Clement 
Vn., Paul III., Julius III., Piu9 IV., and Pius V. 
alike esteemed him, and gladly availed themselves 
of his talents in ornamenting their capital city. It 
is said, that when he waited on Pope Julius III. 
the pontiff rose at his approach, and seated him 
on his right hand ; and whilst "gxcjvxSL Y^O^aXfc^ «sSs^ 

V , 



cardinals, and lordly ambassadors, stood round at 
hnmble distance, he conversed with Michael Angelo 
as equal with equal* 

This great man died in the eighty-ninth year of 
his age. His energy and perseverance never for- 
sook him, and his mind wafi strong and clear to 
the last. 

No. Ill 


The fiistoiy of the Sforza fJEunily is a reinarkable 
one. Jacopo Attendolo, the fiist of the name^ was 
bom of humble parents, abotrt thQ middle of the 
fourteenth century. He forsook in -early you& his 
occupation of a labourer, to enlist in one of those 
companies of adventurers which were then nu- 
merous in Italy, and which served for hire the petty 
princes and repubUcs of that age. Jacopo, having 
displayed great courage and perseverance, acquired 
a considerable reputation in the turbulent band, 
and after serving under various " condottieri," or 
leaders, attached himself to Alberico da Barbiano. 
This was a captain of high birth and noble views. 
Italy was at tiiat time much tEOuVAfidi ntvSii ^qr^^^^ 


mercenaries, who plundered the towns, killed the 
citizens, and committed all manner of outrages. 
Alberico aspired to the glory of delivering his 
country from the oppression of these men. Eaising 
a force of 12,000 soldiers, all natives of Italy, and 
supported by Visconti, Lord of Milan, the Floren- 
tines, and the people of Bologna, he marched to 
meet the foreign troops, and after a desperate 
combat utterly defeated them. Jacopo Attendolo, 
who, by his bravery, contributed greatly to the 
victory, received from Alberico the surname of 
•** Sforza," by which name, and by no other, 
he and his descendants have become known in 

After being engaged in many battles, receiving 
various honours, and. displaying much valour, the 
restless career of this brave but illiterate soldier 
terminated. He little thought that the name 
which he had acquired with honour on the battle- 
.field, would eventually become that of $, sovereign 

Francesco Sforza, son of Jacopo, learnt thcjart of 

.war under his father. He received! from Joanna, 

Queen of Naples, the title of Count, and several 

^ains in ber kingdom. Thinking he had .been 


badly treated by Visconti, Duke of Milan, he led 
his troops against him ; when the Duke, in alarm 
at his repeated victories, at length offered him the 
hand of his only daughter, Bianca, with the city 
and territory of Cremona as a dowry. This well 
pleased the ambitious Sforza ; peace was concluded, 
and the marriage solemnized. But the death of 
the Duke, his father-in-law, opened a new field to 
his ambition, and he now aspired to the sovereignty 
of the duchy of Milan. The people of Milan, con- 
sidering the Visconti dynasty as extinct, proclaimed 
the Republic. But Sforza,- with the aid of the 
Venetians, besieged' the city, and, reduced by 
famine and distracted by anarchy, it at length 
opened its gates to the conqueror, who was then 
solemnly proclaimed Duke of Milan. 

In his new dignity Sforza acted with prudence 
and mildness. He governed well, was desirous 
to promote peace, and improved and adorned 
the city. In his private life he was prudent, 
affable, and humane, and he died generally re- 
gretted, leaving two sons, Galeazzo and Ludovico, 
the former of whom succeeded" him on the ducal 

But thrones won by violene^ ^tA ykjjoss^^^^ 




seldom bring peace to their possessors, and such 
was the case with the Sforza femily. 

Milan, the capital of Lombardy, and the third 
city of Italy, ranking next to Naples and Rome 
in population and importance, stands in the midst 
of a vast plain at the foot of the Alps. It is a 
magnificent city ; its chief glory being its duomo, 
or cathedral. This most beautiful edifice, built 
entirely of white marble, has a truly dazzling 
efiect. Its snowy pinnacles with their delicate 
tracery, and its three thousand statues equally 
white, which adorn the exterior, rising towards 
the bright blue sky, look like some exquisite piece 
of sculpture executed in molten silver. From the 
top of the duomo there is a magnificent and ex- 
tensive view of the fertile plains of Lombardy, and 
of the chain of Alps which borders it in the form 
of a crescent on the north side. The rich and 
glowing plains stretching out like a vast garden, 
the blue mountains, the lakes, and the extraordinary 
beauly and fertility of the country, render Milan 
one of the most attractive cities in Italy. 

It was in the winter of the year 1476, when 
€hdje9tZzo Sforza reigned in Milan, that, on ihe day 


-after Christmas Day, a family party had assembled 
to celebrate the joyous season, in one of the best 
houses in the city. This was the comfortable 
dwelling of the rich citizen Trivulsio, who, in the 
pride and gladness of his heart, had gathered 
about him all his children and grandchildren to 
share in the good cheer which he had so abundantly 
provided for the festive occasion. 

A merry group they were — these light-hearted 
tjhildren of a southern clime, — :and yet, occasionally 
in the midst of their merriment, a shade would 
cross the brow, and a sigh escape the lips, of more 
than one of the party. This was especially observ- 
able when the conversation fell upon public affairs; 
there was then a constraint and a gloom over all, 
which it took some minutes to dispel. 

At such moments each yoimg wife would look 

with tender solicitude towards her husband and 

children, as if she feared she knew not what ; 

vhile on the countenances of the young men 

light be seen an expression of stem i:esolve 

lingled with fiercer passions. 

" It is a sad state of things, truly," observed 

ivulsio, on one of these occasions, ** ne\t\vKt 'cssst 

•sons nor property are safe now. 15jC3rN ^ibSsx^scX 


was it in the time of the good Duke Fran- 
cesco ! " 

" It maybe worse yet," replied Antonio, gloomily ; 
" he is becoming more tyrannical and cruel every 
day. Innocence itself is no safeguard. Only this 
morning he gave orders for the execution of my 
neighbour Guizo's eldest son. As fine a lad as 
ever you saw, and as innocent of treason as that 
babe. It is hard to bear." 

"And why do we bear it?" indignantly ex- 
claimed the handsome young Giulio, with flashing 
eyes. " Why are we thus to stand in daily fear 
of losing all we hold dearest in life ? We have 
bold hearts and sharp steel ; who is the usurper's 
son that we should tamely submit to such oppres- 

" Silence, Giulio ! " said his father, sternly. 
" How often must I bid you beware of your words, 
rash boy? The Duke Francesco ruled us well, 
g,nd I will hear no talk of resistance to his son's 
authority. He is a bad man, but we are not to 
call him to account for his crimes, nor is mine the 
house in which treasonable language shall be used. 
No good ever comes of conspiring against our 


eXB. '' 


" I think his behaviotir to his mother, the good 
Lady Bianca, the worst part of his conduct," said 
Antonio's wife, Teresa. " I cannot forgive, him 
such ingratit;ude to such a mother." 

" What did he do?" asked little Rosina of her 

" He made her life so wretched that she retired 
to Marignano, wher3 after a short illness she died, 
it is said, of poison. Oh ! no blessing can attend 
a son who fails in his duty to his mother ! " 

" If we only had such a government as they 
have in Florence ! " said GiuUo. " Such a chief 
as Lorenzo de Medici ! " 

" Ah ! he is much beloved, and deservedly so," 
replied Trivulsio. " It were well had the Duke 
taken a lesson from him during his visit to 
Florence ; but I imagine he thought more of as- 
tonishing the Florentines by his show and luxury, 
than of gaining any good to himself by the example 
of Lorenzo. 

** Does Ludovico, H Moro,* at all resemble his 
brother?" asked the young Carlo. 

" Nay, he appears to have several good qualities; 

* Ludovico Sforza was styled " II Moro," or the Moor, on 
account of his dark complexion. 


but I fear he is both ambitiotis and deceitful. But 
it is better not to talk of these matters, my children j 
too much has been said already. Come, Rosina^ 
sing to us." 

The child was about to comply, whett a loud 
knocking was heard at the door, and immediately 
after two or three citizens hastily entered the 
apartment. They were pale and agitated. 

" Have you heard, Trivulsio," said one, *' have 
you heard of this terrible murder?" 

" Murder ! no ! what do you mean ?" 

" Close by! — in this very street! — ^the Duke 
Sforza has been stabbed on his way to church!" 

" The Duke stabbed! Oh, Pietro!" 

" It seems to have been the act of a few con- 
spirators. Some have been seized. The body i 
taken to the palace." 

" Well, few will mourn for him," said Giulio. 
" He has brought it on himself." 

" Ah ! it is a fearful deed ! " observed Teresa. 
" The Duchess Bona ! what a blow it will be 
to her ! " 

" I trust the murderers will be taken," said 
Trivulsio ; " such a crime is a disgrace to Milan." 

" Who will be our duke now?" asked Carlo. 


" Who can tell ? His son, Giovanni Galeazzo, 
is but a child. We must have a regency. These 
are troublous times, Pietro. I cannot be thank- 
fill enough that none of my family had a hand 
in so foul a deed. Be assured it will not go un- 

It did not. All the conspirators were taken and 
put to death. The infant Giovanni Galeazzo 
Sforza was proclaimed Duke of Milan, under the 
guardianship of his mother, Bona of Savoy, who 
was made regent. But not a long time elapsed 
before the ambitious Ludovico stepped forward, took 
possession of the regency, arrested the Duchess 
Bona, and put her faithful minister, Simonetta, to 
death. Ludovico Sforza was a man whose character 
stood pre-eminent, even in that age, when such 
qualities were but too common, for perfidy, in- 
gratitude, and cruelty. He scrupled at little to 
serve his own ambitious purposes, and not content 
with obtaining the regency, aimed at still higher 
power. But his character, bad as it was, had in 
it some redeeming points. He was generous, fond 
of the arts and learned men, and a fiiend to 
Bramante and Leonardo da Vinci. ^'^ \s!A*c^\»Jm^^ 



public schools, patronised distinguised scholars, 
founded chairs of Greek, geometry, and astronomy, 
and greatly embellished Milan. Still all this could 
not counterbalance the crimes to which his ambi- 
tion led him. 

One of Ludovico Sforza's favourite places of 
resort was the studio of the celebrated Leonardo da 
Vinci, whom he had invited to Milan. The natural 
gifts of this great artist — " the most accomplished 
man of that accomplished age," — and the variety 
of knowledge he had acquired, were perfectly 
astonishing. Ardent and successful in the study 
of painting, sculpture, botany, natural history, 
chemistry, anatomy, architecture, music, philosophy, 
engineering, and fortification, he was yet the 
greatest mathematician and most ingenious me- 
chanic of his time! To these rare endowments 
was added that of a remarkably handsome person, 
a winning address, and much wit and eloquence. 
His dress was always costly, his manners refined, 
and his conversation varied and interesting. Ludo- 
vico greatly delighted in the society of this talented 
man, and during the seventeen years of his resi- 
dence in Milan, ever treated him with esteem and 


Leonardo was employed on various works for his 
patron ; — one of these, the canal of the Martesana, 
would alone have been sufficient to immortalize 
him. His wonderful and sublime painting, The 
Last Supper, we have already spoken of. It 
occupied him two years, and was by far the grandest 
picture which, up to that time, had appeared in 
Italy.* Ludovico had invited him to Milan to 
execute an equestrian colossal statue of his ancestor 
Francesco Sforza, but the artist never finished more 
than the model in clay, which was considered a 
master-piece. Some years afterwards, when Milan 
was invaded by the French, this was used as a 
target by the Gascon bowmen, and totally de- 

" And when did you first become a painter, 
Leonardo?" said Ludovico Sforza, one day, as he 
stood watching the artist at his work. 

" I do not remember the time when the pencil 
was not a delight to me," replied Leonardo. " My 
favourite pursuit as a child was the art of design 
in all its branches; and my good father, seeing 

♦ The genuine works of Leonardo da Vinci are exceedingly 
rare. Most of the pictiires now attributed to him were wholly, 
or in part, painted by his scholars and imWaAAit^ 


my inclination, sent me to study under Andrea 

" Ah ! an excellent and correct designer, but 
not a good colourist. I have heard that when 
engaged on that painting, the Baptism of the 
Saviour, he employed thee to execute one of the 
angels ; and that it so infinitely surpassed all the 
rest of the picture, that he threw away his palette, 
enraged, it is said, that a child should excel him.* 
Was it not so?" 

" Verrocchio was famed as a sculptor and chaser 

in metal, your excellency," replied Leonardo, 
modestly ; "to painting he was not so partial, 
consequently not so successful in the art." 

" Leonardo," said Sforza, after a pause, " what 
induced thee to paint that horrible thing, the 
Rotello del Fico?t I gave three hundred golden 
ducats for it ; yet can I never look on it without 

The artist smiled. " A peasant on my father's 
estate," he said, " one day brought him a circular 
piece of wood, cut horizontally from the trunk of a 
very large old fig-tree, which had been lately felled, 

* This picture is preserved in the Academy at Florence. 
f jRoktto means a shield ; Fico^ a fig-tree. 


and begged to have something painted on it as 
an ornament for his cottage. The man being an 
especial favourite, my father desired me to gratiiy 
his request ; and, inspired by some wild fancy, I 
took the panel to my own room, resolved, if pos- 
sible, to astonish my worthy parent. I determined 
to compose something which should have an effect 
similar to that of the Medusa, and almost petrify 
beholders. Accordingly, I collected together from 
the neighbouring swamps and the river-mud all 
kinds of hideous reptiles, as adders, lizards, toads, 
serpents, &c., and out of these I compounded the 
monster with flaming eyes, represented on the 
shield. When finished, and I led my father into 
the room in which it was placed, his terror and 
horror proved the success of my attempt." 

" It is, indeed, wonderfully horrible ! what could 
induce thee, Leonardo, to depict so fearful an 

" A whim, I suppose, your excellency, and the 
desire of surprising my father. We artists take 
strange fancies sometimes." 

" But the peasant ? what said he to the Rotello ? " 

" He never saw it. My father sold it secretly 
to a merchant, who brought it to MilaiiL\ ^\^^ \!a!^ 


poor peasant was presented with a wooden shield, 
on wliich was painted a heart transfixed by a dart 
— a device better suited to his taste and compre- 

" I doubt it not. But, Da Vinci, never again 
employ thy talents on the horrible. Depend upon 
it, ere long, the Rotello will perish ; while such a 
work as that on which thou art engaged, in the 
church of Santa Maria, will immortalise thy name.* 
A mind like thine, with such a sense of the beau- 
tifiil and the graceful, should depict nought else. 
But why dost thou lay down thy brush?" 

" I am not satisfied with my work, your excel- 

"Thou never art, man. That is one of thy 
failings, Leonardo, that thou dost begin many 
things, and finish few. How is this ? " 

" I know not, unless it be that I can seldpm 
realize my own conceptions, and therefore am dis- 

" And yet thy industry is great. Thou wert 
busily engaged in writing, a while ago. May I 
ask what subject occupied thy pen?" 


* In the sabsequent troubles of Milan, the Botello was de- 
Biroyed, &a an object of horror. 


" That of engineering, your excellency. I have 
discovered a method of making bridges, extremely 
light and portable, both for the pursuit of, and the 
retreat from, an enemy ; and others that shall be 
very strong and fire-proof, easy to fix and to take 
up again. I can also construct covered waggons, 
which shall be proof against any force, and, entering 
into the midst of the enemy, will break any number 
of men, and make way for the infantry to follow 
without hurt or impediment." 

" Sayest thou so? why, what a myriad-minded 
man thou art, Da Vinci ! Let us see thy treatise : 
ere long thy help may be needed in such matters." 

The valuable and numerous manuscripts of 
Leonardo da Vinci are still preserved in Milan. 
They are on various subjects, but particularly diffi- 
cult to read or decipher, as the artist had a habit of 
writing from right to left, instead of from left to 
right. It is said that when they were shown to 
Napoleon, on his visit to Milan in 1797, he carried 
them and Petrarch's " Virgil " to his hotel himself, 
not allowing any one to touch them, exclaiming with 
delight, " They are mine ! they are mine ! " King 
James I., of England, made an ofier of 10,000Z. 
for these manuscripts, but it was dec^m'^. 


The young Duke Giovanni Graleazzo was now 
grown up, and had married the grand-daughter of 
Ferdinand, King of Naples. But instead of taking 
peaceable possession of the ducal throne of Milan, 
he was prevented doing so by the intrigues and 
artifices of his uncle, Ludovico. One crime leads 
to another. He who had usurped the regency, 
now aspired to sovereign power, and basely and 
treacherously meditated the destruction of his 
nephew, that he might get possession of the duchy 
for himself. This, however, he did not openly 
dare to do, fearing the vengeance of King Fer- 
dinand; but he would allow Galeazzo no share 
in the government, and confined him and his wife 
to their own apartments. Ferdinand, indignant 
with his conduct, remonstrated and threatened, 
and Ludovico, to avoid the storm, and give the 
old king something else to think of, in an evil 
hour for himself invited and encouraged Charles 
the Eighth, of France, to undertake the conquest of 
the kingdom of Naples. He willingly agreed; 
and this was the origin of all the wars and 
calamities of Italy in the sixteenth century, with 
the total loss of her political independence. 


It was a sad day for Italy when the French 
armies landed on her shores, and ere long Ludovico 
Sforza bitterly repented his rash invitation. He 
went to meet King Charles, and stayed with him 
till he was assured of the success of a dose of 
poison, which he had a short time before found Ae 
means of giving to his unfortunate nephew. As 
soon as he heard that Galeazzo was dead, he 
hastened back to Milan, and took possession of the 
duchy he had so long coveted. 

The inhabitants of Milan were much shocked 
at the suspicious death of their young duke, who 
was only in his twenty-fifth year; nevertlieless, 
Ludovico II Moro was peacefully proclaimed. But 
the French nobles loudly condemned such base 
and treacherous conduct, and urged their king to 
proceed immediately to Milan, and avenge his 
cousin's death; for Charles and Galeazzo were 
sister's children. The monarch, however, refused 
to comply with their request. 

" My whole mind," he said, " is set on con- 
quering Naples, and I am not to be turned aside, 
even to punish a usurper." 

Accordingly he proceeded on \iiax£V'ax^^"^'«s^^<Bt 


he went proclaiming himself" the friend of freedom, 
and the enemy of tyrants." Every gate was opened 
to him as he passed on, while Florence and Borne 
received him in triumph. He took possession of 
Naples, and was welcomed by the inhabitants as 
their deliverer from oppression. With the ex- 
ception of three, every city in the Neapolitan 
dominions submitted to him ; and he achieved this 
great conquest without striking a single blow! 

But the princes of Italy soon began to recover 
from the panic into which they had been thrown 
by the irruption of the foreigners. The Neapo- 
litans, too, finding their new masters worse than 
their old ones, and weary of their insolence, rapa- 
city, and oppression, longed to see them depart. 
So the Pope, the Venetians, and Ludovico Sforza, 
who no longer needed their help, entered into a 
confederacy together, and ere long drove the French 
out of Italy. But the path once found, coidd be 
traversed again. 

And now that Ludovico H Moro was, as he 
imagined, securely seated on the ducal throne of 
Milan, perhaps you may think he was a happy man ? 
Far bom it. It was now his troubles began. 


Amongst the nobles who had accompanied King 
Charles to Italy, was the Duke of Orleans. He 
MW the fair duchj of Milan, and immediately raised 
some hereditary claims to it. Ludovico now per- 
ceived the danger to which he had exposed himself 
by soliciting foreign aid. . With, some difficulty he 
repulsed his rival ; but the fertile pl«4n9 of Lom-^ 
bardy were too goodly a prize to be forgotten. 

When, by the death of Charles, the Duke of 
Orleans became king of France, as Louis XII. , he 
sent an army to the conquest of Milan. The 
Venetians and the Pope joined th^ French ; Sforza 
was obliged to yield to the storm, and took refuge 
in Germany. 

" So we hav6 a new ruler, now," said Trivulsio, 
one day, in the summer of 1499 ; " I find the king 
of France is about to enter our city in his ducal 
robes, as lord of Milan." 

" Yes," replied Giulio, " he soon crossed the 
Alps when he heard of his general's success. It 
was an easy conquest. I wonder if he has rcially 
any claim to the duchy." 

" I know not. It is certain, however, that 
Ludovico il Moro had none," 


" No. He did not long enjoy Ids usurped 
dignity, fether?* 

" Ah! Bay son. Honours obtained by unfair 
means cannot be depended on. They bring neither 
security nor peace." 

" But yet," said GiuKo, -after a pause, " I would 
the duke were back again. The thought of being 
governed by these foreigners is unendurable." 

" They are certainly not the rulers for Milan ; 
and if they treat us as they did the Neapolitans, it 
is my opinion they will not long continue so," 
replied Trivulsio. 

After a sojourn of three weeks in the city. King 
Louis returned to France, thinking he had arranged 
affairs very satisfactorily. The French, however, 
soon made themselves as much disliked in Lom- 
bardy as they had been in Naples ; and, disgusted 
with their tyranny and oppression, the Milanese 
revolted. They were driven away, and Ludovico 
Sforza once more entered his capitaL 

But it was not to enjoy peace. Louis sent fifesh 
forces into Italy, and Ludovico was not only de-» 
feated, but taken prisoner. His -restless ambition, 
which had led him into the commission of so many 


crimes, was now visited with a heavy punishment 
For the remainder of his life he was kept a close 
captive in the solitary castle of Loches, in France. 
But the evil of what he had done did not end 
here. The possession of the duchy of Milan was a 
constant source of dispute between Francis I., suc- 
cessor to Louid, and his great rival, Charles V. 
After many years of war in Italy between the 
French, Germans, and Spaniards, Lombardy fell 
into the hands of Austria, and the House of Sforza 
became extinct. 


Ko. IV. 


One of the finest cities in the world is Genoa 
the Superb. Built in the form of a crescent, over- 
looking the beautiful bay, with sumptuous marble 
palaces, churches, and convents rising one above 
another on the steep hill-side, the whole crowned 
with formidable ramparts, and the bold range of 
the Apennines in the back-ground, its appearance 
from the sea is truly magnificent. The splendid 
edifices, the terraces, the balconies of white marble, 
planted with orange and lemon-trees — a realization 
of hanging gardens — ^which adorn this far-famed 
city, render it well worthy of admiration; and when 
we think of its former power — of its numerous and 
wealthy possessions, of its celebrated naval force, 
Mnd ,o£ its having been t\i^ "VArtlar^lace of Chris- 





topher Colnmbufl — we caxmot survey it witiont 
feelings of die deepest interest. 

Amongst the many marble palaces which add 
beauly to this beautiM city, is one, for grandeur 
and extent, the most magnificent edifice on the 
Bay of Grenoa. 

** O'er the sea 
Delicioufi gardens hung; green galleries 
And marble terraces in many a flight, 
And faiiy arches flung from cliff to diff, 
' WUdering, eachanting ; and above them all 
A palace;" 

a fit residence for the first sovereign in Europe. 

Its marble staircases, splendid saloons, and spa- 
cious galleries, aU adorned with the richest tapes- 
tries, beautiM statuary, and valuabk paintings- 
its balconies, opening on to the terraced gardens, 
ytrhet^ blootn in rich luxuriance the orange, the 
mjrrtiie, and the oleander— -its sparkling fountains 
and shady grottos, washed by the deep blue sea, 
and canopied by the deep blue sky — all denote it 
to have been in former times the abode of one 
raised above his fellow-men. It was sa A single 
line under the windows of the palace states that its 
illustrious founder had been Admiral of Pope 
C/lement Yn, of the Emperoit GhfiatVia'^ ^ ^"Xis!% 


Francis I, and of his own country — an extraordi-^ 
nary and justly celebrated man, whose alliance wad 
sought by the greatest princes of the age, and who 
was in himself almost a power. It was the resi-* 
dence of the true and brave Andrea Doria, one of 
the greatest characters that Italy produced during 
the middle ages, and one whom it is the boast of 
Genoa to have justly appreciated. 

Noble, patriotic Andrea Doria ! well may Grenoa 
be proud of thee atkd love thy name ! 

" Thine was a gloriooA course !* 

^ ' t 

One summer's evening in the year 1628, the 
inhabitants of Gretioa were seen hurrying down fo 
the port, with countenances expressive of mingled 
joy, fear, and curiosity. Some galleys were enters 
ing the bay in the distance, and on them every 
eye was fixed in suspense. To know under whose 
flag they sailed, and for what purpose they were 
approaching Genoa, was the anxious desire of «ach 
one present ; for this was a time of war, and none 

, knew howj30on their fair city might be involved 
in its horrors, and become the prey of the con- 
queror. The suspense, however, did not continue 

Jong; an jold weather-beaten sirilojr, .who, shading 


his eyes with his hand, had regarded the vessels 
attentively for a few minutes, at length exclaimed 
with a satisfied air, " They are the Admiral's gal- 
leys returning from Naples ! " 

"Are you sure of it, Mattea?" anxiously 
inquired the bystanders. 

" Am I sure of it ? " replied the old sailor, 
" who knows them better than I do ? Methinks 
I have served too many years under our brave 
old admiral to be mistaken in his galleys ; and 
see ! there is the flag of victory ! another conquest, 
brothers ! fresh glory to Andrea Doria, and to the 
Republic of Genoa ! " 

" It is so indeed I " exclaimed the delighted 
people, as the vessels rapidly approached ; " they 
come from Naples, and come triumphant ! All 
honour to the Admiral and to his gallant nephew ! " 

" What is it, papa? why do the people shout 
so?" asked a little boy, who, holding his father's 
hand, looked on in childish wonder. 

" These are some of the galleys the admiral sent 
out tmder the command of his nephew, Filippinp, 
to assist King Francis against Charles V. The 
French are besieging Naples, and it appears that 
we have gained a victory for theW 


" Then I must shout too ! " exclaimed the l)oy, 
waving his little cap in the air, and adding his 
voice to the general acclamations of " Long life to 
the Admiral ! health to the King of France, and 
prosperity to the Republic of Grenoa ! " 

" Papa," said the little Genoese, when he was 
tired of shouting, " the king of France must feel 
very grateful to our good admiral for fighting his 
battles for him ; does he not ? " 

" He does. It is not every monarch who can 
command the services of one brave, wise, and skil- 
ful as Andrea Doria. King Francis courteously 
and earnestly entreated the admiral's valuable 
assistance, and for many years he has now been 
a conqueror in the service of France, covered with 
glory, and enriched by the sovereign. He is a 
great man, Alberto, and a true patriot. Much ser- 
vice has he rendered us by riddhig the seas of those 
pirates which caused so great alarm. The sea 
robbers tremble at the name of Andrea Doria." 

" I hope so, I hope so," exclaimed a voice behind 
them, and looking round, Alberto and his father 
perceived the admiral himself. He was a fine look- 
ing man, about fifty years of age : weather-beaten, 
^^for &om early life the sea had been his home, — but 


with a frank, good-humoured, and intelligent ex-^ 
pression of countenance^ that bespoke at once the 
true s^or, and the brave and skilful commands. 

** Yon galleys bring us good tidings, Maratti,'? 
he said, as he laid his hand on Alberto's cur^ 
head; " mj brave Filippino has again humbled 
the proud Spaniard. Bless the lad i he has a fine 
spirit, and a noble heart.** 

Before Maratti could reply, there was a renewed 
shout of " Long life to the Admiral 1 " for the peo- 
ple, catching sight of the brave officer, whom alt 
loved, showed by their hearty acclamations how* 
truly they rejoiced in Mb sn Jsb. 

And louder still became the " Vivas,^ and 
brighter yet the joyful faces of the animated 
group, as the gaUeys approached nearer; and 
when from the lips of the sailors was heard the 
announcement " Victory ! Great victory over the 
Spaniards!" one long loud burst of gratulation 
welcomed them home. 

In a very few minutes a young officer had 
sprung on shore, and approached Doria with re- 
spectful deference. 

" I bear you greetings from the lieutenant, noble 
SignOT,*^ he said, saluting the adm\t«X\ ^^ \kfc ^<«&sj^ 



me to acquaint you that he has been fortanate 
enough to gain an important victory over the 
Spaniards oS Naples. The Spanish viceroy has 
been killed, most of his fleet destroyed, and many 
officers of distinction, amongst whom k the Mar- 
quis del Guasto, taken prisoners. They are- now 
on board these galleys, sent to you by our brave 
commander as trophies of his victory, and testi-* 
monies of his respect." 

. " My gallant boy 1 " exclaimed the admiral^ 
while something like a tear glittered in his eye, 
** he has done well indeed ! This is a blow from 
which the Emperor will not soon recover. Thanks 
for your tidings,^ brave Veletti ; you have earned 
promotion, I see, or my nephew would not have 
entrusted one so young with so important a charge« 
Come to my house, and inform me of particulars. 
Come, Maratti, let us hear how bravely our men 
bore them in the fight." 

' r 
. I 

That evening Andrea Doria and his friend 
Maratti, who had served under him for many 
years, were seated in one of the shady grottoes 
which commanded 9* view of the beautiful Bay of 
Genoa, Litii^ Alberto was playing near them; 


he wis a great favourite with the kind-hearted 
admiral, who had many a stirring tale ' to tell of 
bold sea-fightd and perilous adventure. The air 
was fragrant with the perfume of the orange and 
lembn-tre^s, the flowers bloomed in rich profusion 
around, and the clear bright moon was shedding 
her light on the ;deep blue waters of t]^e bay. 
Doria's eyes rested on the galleys anchored near 
the shore. 

"Yes; it is an important victory for King 
Ftancis," he obsierved; " I trust he will now have 
the' grace to attend to my remonstrances. He has 
too long been regardless of them.'* 

** Has he then given you no reply to your last 
appeal?^' asked Maratti in surprise. 

J * He has not, I have served King Francis, 
MarJrtti, to the utmost of my power, and would 
gladly serve him still, but I must have justice. He 
placed a garrison in this city on condition of re- 
specting the liberties of the inhabitants ; and how 
has he kept his promise? In various ways our 
people have been oppressed and tyrannized over, 
and I. have remonstrated and complained in vain. 
My appointments are not paid, and my advice, even 
in naval affairs, ofteti slighted. Bwi ^\N»X.\ss'^s3waft» 
m^jaost^for it coBpe;m8 the Vouaxsx «si^\s^3s«3^- 


of mj coontiy, is this forti^cation of SaY(»ELa hf the 
French. Theyfaave already reinotred Ihither some 
branches of the trade carried on in Genoa, and 
plainly show that it is their intention to render A&t 
town our riTal in wealth and commerce. This is 
not to be borne. I am a plain sailor, unused to 
flattery, and unacoostomed to courts; but at the 
same time I am a free and independent citizen 
of the republic of Grenoa, and while I live Geiloa 
shall have justice.** . - 

** King Francis surely cannot be aware of the 
conduct of his agents," replied Maratti : ** he iB a 
generous and noble ^ince, and not only entertain^ 
a just sense of your valuable services, but has dlso 
a high esteem for your character." 

" That is more than I shall have for his if he act 
thus towards us," observed Andrea Doria; ** but 
it may be as you say, that he is unacquainted 
with all our grievances. He is so surrounded with 
courtiers, who think nothing of telling falsehoods 
to gain their own ends, that the Teal truth may ttot 
have reached him. Could I but get speech of th<£j 
royal Francis for one half-hour, he should soon 
hear it from me." 

' *' I do not doubt it, admiral. Meantime, what* 
jjMar the cowtdefrB may- ^k^s ii)lcL<& \^<^ tss^N. ^^ 


gratefnlly acknowledge the valuable assistance you 
have lendered to him and his cause/' 
'. *^ He must acknowledge that from the time I 
entered his service, at his own earnest entreaty, 
I have been true and faithful to him. All I ask is 
that he should- be the same to me and mj country* 
Fair promised are not enough, Maratti. So long as 
King Francis acts honourably, my services are at 
}na Qommand, but I will never sit tamely by and 
966 an insult offered to Grenoa." 
. There was a look of stem displeasure on the 
admiral's brow as he s;^oke. It soon passed away, 
however, wh6n little Alberto, running with childish 
eagerness towards him, joyfully placed a tiny boat 
in his handsw 

" There," he said, with beaming eyes, " it is 
fimshed at last ! I hope you will like it ; I made it 
jEop you, because I love you so much*" 

** Bless you, my darling l" said the brave old 
officer, evidently touched by this proof of the child's 
aflfection for him, " it is very pretty. And so you 
made it all yourself, Alberto?" 

" Yes, all myself, only papa tapght me how to 
,rig the sails. Do you like it?" 

^* I Uke it very much, my borj^Xs^ \ VJmj^ ^^s'bdl 
. tra& and boneatj better. Alwvj^ ^sijj^s^ '^^ Nso^v 


Alberto, and yon will do well. Why, if you cattt 
build such a gallant little vessel as this, you will 
soon be ready to go to sea with me, and fight for 
^ing Francis." 

^* Oh ! I shall be so glad when that day comes,'* 
exclaimed the boy with delight; " do you think 
I shall be ready by next month, admiral?" 

" Next month ? well, I took my first voyage 
when I was no older than you are, dear child ; and 
a rough trip it was! But I loved the sea from the 
first moment I saw it, and for more than fifty years 
it has now been my home." 
J " And I love the sea too !" said Alberto, ** ihe 
dashing, sparkling, glorious sea I Oh, I long to 
be a sailor ! like Christopher Columbus, to discover 
•new lands, or like you to fight and conquer I " 

" Christopher Columbus, when he was a little 
boy, had the same desire that you have, Alberto, 
afi he looked out upon those blue waters. Sit down, 
niy boy, and I will tell you how it was he won for 
himself a name which shall never be forgotten." 

To that gentleness and kindness of heart which 
made even little children love him, Andrea Doria 
joined a high and determined spirit. The citizen 
of a lepnhliCf and trained iip from his. infency in 
'0baraervice,' Ji© Tetained. ^^ SsA^^^rsAmw^ 


natural to the former, with the plain liberal man* 
ners peculiar to the latter. A stranger to the arts 
of submission or flattery necessary in courts, but 
conscious at the same time of his own importance 
he always o£fered his advice to King Francis with 
freedom, and often remonstrated with some bold- 
ness. The French ministers disliking a man who 
treated them so unceremoniously, determined to 
deprive him of their master's favour, and though 
Francis himself both esteemed Doria's charactef) 
and highly valued his services, yet by hearing him 
<x)ntinually represented as a proud and self-willed 
man, more eager to enrich himself than to promote 
the interests of France, the monarch's mind became 
gradually filled with suspicion and distrust. iFrom 
that time the brave admiral was subjected to many 
afl&ronts and indignities. He bore them as weU as 
he could, but an injury offered to his country trans- 
ported him beyond the bounds of patience. Find- 
ing that no attention was paid to his remonstrances 
concerning Savona, and animated by a patriotic 
zeal for the honour and welfare of Genoa, Dorii 
complained in the highest tone, and even threatened, 
if the measure were not instantly abandoned. Thid 
bold action, by the malice of tlife ^\jaNftKt% ^^^a^ 


in the worist light before King Francis, irritated 
him to such a degree, than in an evil hour he com- 
manded one of his admirals to sail directly to 
Genoa, arrest Doria, and seize his galleys. It was 
conduct unworthy the royal Francis : but the rash 
Older was giy^n in . moment of ^tulance, and 
bhterly did he afterwards repent it. 

Haratti one morning entered the admiral's apart- 
ment in some agitation. 

* " What is the matter?" asked Doria, " has any- 
thing happened to the boy ? speak ! " and he started 
up in alarm for the safety of his little &YOurite. 

" He is well, quite well," replied Maratti, " but, 
my dear friend, I have just heard some scarcely 
credible tidings." 
. " Speak them." 

" They nearly concern you." 

" So much the better. If good, they are wel- 
come ; but if bad, as I suspect, I would rather they 
came to me than to my friends. What have you 
heard, Maratti?" 

" That the King of France has given secret orders 
to Barbesieux to arrest you and seijae your galleys ! 
The admiral is now on hia; way hither." 


" Arrest me!" exclaimed Andrea Dona, in the 
greatest astonishment. " Seize my galleys ! do I 
hear rightly, Maratti ?" 

"Alas! my friend, you do; alas! for kingly 
honour ! Well may it be said, * Put not your 
trust in princes.' You have enemies at the French 
court, who would gladly ruin you, Admiral. They 
have misrepresented your words and actions to the 
king, and filled his mind with distrust and suspicion. 
Fortunately, though his orders were secret, I re- 
ceived intelligence of them. You have time to 

" And so King Francis suspects and distrusts 
Andrea Doria ! " said the gallant sailor, the proud 
blood rising to his cheek; " it is the last time he 
shall do so. Need is there indeed to separate if 
matters stand thus. And he listens to the tales 
of a few envious courtiers against one who for 
years has been as true as steel to him and his! 
Well, be it so. Andrea Doria needs not the favour 
of Francis of France, and can dispense with friend- 
ship so distrustful and uncertain." 

" It is conduct so unworthy of his right royal 
and generous heart, I could scarcely have believed 
it," observed Maratti ; " but ha 1aa&\i^fc\i^T%ySNsy$^^ 


i^uU will discover liis mistake before long. Now, 
thow ii^ no time to lose, admiral ; ere mom the 
bV\>ach fleet will anchor in the bay." 

*' Thoy will come on a bootless errand as regards 
mo and my galleys," replied Doria, smiling qnietly; 
•* tor the present I retire into the Gnlf of La Spezia. 
kiofon^ long they shall hear of me again — ^perhaps 
nooiior than they like. Come, Maratti, this is but 
Huother of fortune's changes." 

When the French fleet, early the next morning, 
anchored in the Bay of Gfenoa, the gallant Doria 
and his galleys were beyond the reach of its 
power. But the indignation of the Grenoese was 
very great when they learned the errand on which 
it came, and bitterly and loudly they inveighed 
against King Francis and all his ministers. That 
thoiv brave countryman should be suspected! he 
who was a pattern of truthfulness, fidelity, and 
honour! it was an insult scarcely to be borne. 
Tlioy disliked the French more and more, and 
oavuostly desired to be rid of their yoke. 

Aud Andrea Doria, fired by the xmworthy treat- 
ment to which he had been subjected, sent for his 
uophew, Filippino, to join binv mth the galleys 


from Naples. Whilst his indignation and resent- 
ment were at their height, the Marquis del Guasto, 
his prisoner, who had observed and fomented his 
growing discontent, determined to lay hold of this 
favourable opportunity to induce him to enter the 
service of his master, Charles V. 

" The King of France has indeed treated you 
most unworthily," he observed one day, as Doria 
sat in silence by his side ; " you surely will not 
remain in his service longer?" 

" He has treated me badly, but my country yet 
worse," replied Doria. " I see no hope for Genoa 
in the present state of things." 

" The Emperor would never have acted thus 
towards a faithful ally," said the Marquis. " There 
is hope for your country, brave Doria, if you will 
trust Aim." 

Andrea Doria looked up. 

" Offer your services to Charles," continued the 
Spaniard, " and you will never have reason to repent 
it, — he is a princely master and a true friend. Aided 
by him, you will deliver Genoa from French op- 
pression. Let me entreat you, for the sake of your 
wuntry, to seek the powerful protection of one able 
nd willing to serve h«:." 



" And will Charles secure her safety and inde- 
pendence, should I do as you desire?" asked 

" Be assured he will. You may make your own 
terms with him. Let me prevail on you to despatch 
an officer to the Imperial court, with your overtures 
and demands ; the reply will be all you could 

" I will do so !" said the admiral, after a pause 
of some minutes, during which he remained in 
deep thought ; " France has cast me off by her 
unjust treatment. I owe her nothing. But Genoa 
must have the powerftd protection of one or other 
of the rival monarchs, and to the Emperor will 
I apply." 

He did so ; and Charles with a joyful heart, and 
glad smiles, received his proposals. Fully sensible 
of the importance of such an acquisition as Andrea 
Doria, he instantly granted him whatever terms he 
required. These were, that Genoa, as soon as it 
was freed from the French, should be restored to 
its independence under the Imperial protection, 
and that no foreign garrison or government should 
be admitted into it. At the same time, Doria 
engaged to serve the Empexoi with twelve galleys, 


flitted out by himself, for which Charles agreed to 
pay him 90,000 ducats a-year. 

Then, Andrea Doria, taking off the collar of St. 
Michael, sent it back with his commission to King 
Francis, saying as he saw the messenger depart, 
" It is thine own doing, fair king ; thou hast cast 
from thee one who was thy faithful friend." And 
at once, hoisting the Imperial colours, he sailed with 
all his galleys towards Naples, not, as formerly, to 
block up the harbour of that unhappy city, but to 
bring protection and deliverance to the distressed 
and famishing inhabitants. A very short time 
afterwards, appearing before Genoa with his 
little squadron, he obtained possession of the 
city, and after a sharp contest drove the French 

It was a proud and happy moment for Andrea 
Doria, when his grateful countrymen, with joyfal 
acclamations, hailed him as their deliverer. He 
had attained the object of his highest ambition, — 
his earnest desire was fulfilled — he had freed Geno9 
from the dominion of foreigners. Noble Andrea 
Doria ! with thy guileless, simple, manly, trusting 
heart; high stands thy name among the patriot 
band ! 


And now arose a strikihg scene. The people 
forming into a triumphal procession, appeared be- 
fore their deliverer's palace, and while the streets 
echoed with the sound of his beloved and honoured 
name, a deputation of the richest and noblest 
citizens entreated him, in the name of all,]to accept 
the sovereignty of Grenoa. " You have an un- 
doubted right to it, noble Admiral," they said, 
" you have freed our country from oppression, you 
have restored to us peace and liberty ; now, then, 
rule over us and protect us still. The fame of your 
former actions, the present glorious success, the 
attachment of your friends, the deep gratitude of 
your countrymen, and the support of the emperor, 
all combine to prove you worthy of the throne of 
Genoa. Accept it then from your coimtry, and so 
add to our happiness." 

Doria was deeply touched. It was only on the 
previous day that Charles himself, struck with the 
gallantry of his conduct, had offered to establish 
him on the throne of his country. All conspired 
in inviting him to lay hold of kingly power. 

But with a magnanimity of which there are feW 
examples, this true patriot sacrificed all thoughts 
of self to the virtuous satisfaction of establishing 


liberty in his native land, — the highest object at 
which ambition can aim. " My friends," said this 
disinterested and noble man, addressing the im- 
mense crowd assembled in the court before his 
palace, " the happiness of seeing you once more in 
possession of freedom is to me a full reward for all 
my services ; and believe me when I say, the name 
of citizen is infinitely dearer to Andrea Doria than 
would be that of sovereign. Far be it from me to 
claim pre-eminence or power above you, my fellow- 
countrymen; I am one of you; and to you do I 
entirely remit the right of settling what form of 
government you would now have established in 

With tears of joy and admiration the people 
listened as he spoke. They saw he was sincere in 
what he said, and much as they had always loved 
the brave and good Andrea Doria, their respect 
and affection for him now increased tenfold. 
They could not answer him; they did not attempt 
to turn him from his high resolve; but they in- 
voked blessings on his head; and each went to his 
home that day a better man from the influence of 
Doria's virtues and example. 

Twelve persons were then appointed to xe.\s^<5iAsk 


the constitution of the Eepublic. The factions 
which had long torn and mined the state seemed 
to be forgotten; prudent precautions were taken to 
prevent their reviving, and the form of govern- 
ment which since that time has subsisted with 
little variation in Genoa, was established amidst 
universal applause. Doria lived to a great age, 
beloved, respected, and honoured by his country- 
men; and, without deviating from his simple, 
straightforward conduct, or assuming any power 
unbecoming a private citizen, he preserved a great 
ascendency over the councils of the Republic. 
The authority which he possessed was more flatter- 
ing, as well as more satisfactory, than that derived 
from sovereignty, for it was a dominion founded 
in love and gratitude, and upheld, not by the 
dread of his power, but by veneration for his 
virtues. His memory is still reverenced by the 
Genoese, and he is distinguished in their histories 
and public monuments by the most honourable of 
all appellations — THE father of his country 


And not only at home, but abroad, was Andrea 
Doria loved and honoured. As admiral of CharlesV, 
he highly distinguished himself, gaining victory 


after victory over the Turks and pirates of Barbary. 
The emperor set great value on his services, ever 
treated him with distinction and respect; and gave 
him many marks of friendship and attachment. 

In his voyages from one part of his extensive 
dominions to another, it was generally Doria's 
galley which conveyed him; and twice the admiral 
magnificently entertained him in his palace at 
Genoa. On one of these occasions Charles pre- 
sented Doria with a favourite dog, saying, "Keep 
Koedan for my sake. Admiral; may he prove as 
faithful a friend to you, as you have been to his 

In the Emperor's expedition against Tunis, his 
Genoese admiral escorted him, and contributed 
greatly to the taking of that place. But when 
Charles proposed an attack upon Algiers, the 
experienced old sailor endeavoured to dissuade 
him from it. " Do not, I entreat your Majesty," 
he said, "expose your whole armament to such 
almost unavoidable destruction. The coast of 
Algiers is most dangerous at such an advanced 
season of the year as this. Let me implore you 
to delay the expedition for a time " 



" Why, Doria ! this is unKke you," said Charles 
smiling, " you are not wont to be backward in 
such an enterprise as this, nor are you in general 
afraid of a few gales. Look at the glorious force 
I command, and say have you the heart to bid me 
desist? Here are 20,000 foot and 2,000 horse, 
together with 3,000 volunteers, the flower of the 
Spanish and Italian nobility, and 1,000 soldiers 
from Malta, led on by a hundred of the gallant 
knights of St. John, all eager to share in my 
glory. My schemes are all well laid, and I have 
the most sanguine hopes of success. How then, 
I ask, can you bid me desist?" 

" On account of the danger I foresee," answered 
the admiral. " The autumnal winds prevail with 
such violence at this season on that perilous coast 
1 am an old sailor, your Majesty, well acquainted 
with the sea in all its moods, and you know I am 
no coward; but I confess I have many fears con- 
cerning this expedition." 

" And I have none," replied the emperor. " So, 
good Doria, we embark on board your galleys at 
Porto Venere, in the course of two or three weeks. 
You will be in readiness ?" 

^'I TFiU," said the brave admiral; " since your 


Majesty is determined on going, Andrea Doria is 
not one to stay behind." 

The emperor and his forces embarked, and, 
alas ! the admiral's predictions proved too true ! 

" One night, 'twas in November, 
A mist arose on high, 
Not the oldest could remember, 
Snch a dense and darken'd sky. 

"There was no wind to move them, 

So the sails were furl'd and fast. 
And the gallant flag above them 

Dropp'd down upon the mast 
All was still as if death's shadow 

Were resting on the grave; 
And the sea, like some dark meadow. 

Had not one rippling wave; 

" When the sky was rent asunder 

With a flood of crimson light. 
And one single burst of thunder 

Aroused the silent night. 
'Twas the signal for their waking ! 

The angry winds arose. 
Like giant captives breaking 

The chain of forced repose. 

'* Like old oak of the forest 

Down comes the thundering mast; 
Her need is at the sorest- 
She shudderB in t\iQ \AsAt. 




Hark ! to that low quick gnshing, 

The hold has sprung a leak ; 
On their prey the waves are rushing, 

The yaliant one grows weak. 

" One cry, and all is quiet ; 

There is nor sight nor sound, 
Save the fierce gale at its riot, 

And the angry waters round. 
The mom may come with weeping, 

And the storm may cease to blow. 
But the gallant ship is sleeping 

A thousand fathoms low.** 

And such was the fate of many ships in that 
most unfortunate expedition ! 

" I have weathered not a few storms during my 
life, but never have I seen one equal to that in 
fierceness and horror," said the old admiral to his 
young friend Alberto, now grown a fine boy and a 
brave sailor. " The sea rose mountains high, the 
wind blew with terrific violence, the ships all torn 
from their anchors were dashing, some against each 
other, some on the rocks ; some ran ashore, and 
many sank. In less than an hour, Alberto, fifteen 
ships of war, and 140 transports, with 8,000 men, 
perished in the deep waters ! " 

'' Oh 1 what a dreadftd scene ! " 


" Aye ; aad such of the unhappy crews as 
escaped the fiiry of the sea, were murdered without 
mercy by the Arabs as soon as they reached land. 
All the vast stores of ammunition and food which 
the Emperor had provided, were alike swallowed 
up by the greedy waves. May I never again 
behold such a fearful sight!" 

" And the Emperor, — where was he ?" 

" On shore with the army. The rage of the 
tempest was such, that the soldiers were obliged 
to thrust their spears into the ground, and support 
themselves by them to prevent falling. The 
ground was so wet they could not lie down, and at 
every step they sank up to their ankles in mud. 
Dispirited and benumbed with cold, their matches 
extmguished and their powder wet, so that their 
muskets were useless, they were in ill condition to 
meet the enemy, and were soon thrown into con- 
fiision. The presence of the Emperor fortunately 
restored order, and saved his army from utter 

" But what must have been his feelings when 
day broke, and, casting his eyes on the waters, he 
saw'all hopes of success for ever blasted?" 

" In silent astonishment and angaiah. \ift. %^atti^ 



and gazed. The storm was such it was impossible 
to communicate with him, or send him any intelli- 
gence of what had happened, and for twenty-six 
hours he remained in all the anguish of uncertainty. 
The next day I despatched a boat, manned by 
some of my boldest sailors ; it made shift to reach 
land, and bore this message from me to the 
Emperor, * That during my fifty years' knowledge 
of the sea, never having experienced such a hurri- 
cane, I found it necessary to bear away with my 
shattered ships to Cape Metafuz,' to which place 
I entreated him to march with all speed, and re- 
embark his troops." 

" He took your advice this time, I hope?" 
" He did. The situation of the army was such, 
not one moment was to be lost. Charles ordered 
the soldiers instantly to march, — the sick, the 
wounded, and feeble, being placed in the centre. 
A terrible march it was ! Worn out with fatigue, 
and perishing with famine, the brave men could 
scarcely support the weight of their arms, and num- 
bers fell to rise no more. The roads were almost 
impassable, the brooks so swollen with the rains, 
that in crossing them the men waded up to the 
jjIfrT; they had no food^ but the flesh of horses, 


kiUed by the Emperor's command, and not a few 
were slain by the enemy, who pursued, alarmed, and 
harassed them night and day. At length they reached 
Cape Metafuz,and right gladly we received them on 
board, supplied them with plenty of provisions, and 
cheered them with the prospect of safety." 

" And how did the Emperor bear these terrible 
calamities? " 

" Admirably ! His firmness and constancy of 
spirit, his magnanimity, fortitude, humanity, and 
compassion, could not be sufficiently applauded. 
He endured as great hardships as the meanest 
soldier, exposed his own person wherever danger 
threatened, encouraged the desponding, visited the 
sick and wounded, animated all by cheering words, 
and when the army embarked, was the last to leave 
the shore. I loved and honoured him so truly for 
the great qualities he then manifested, that I 
slmost forgave him his obstinacy in undertaking 
Ac rash and presumptuous expedition which in- 
volved such a fearful loss of life." 

" His misfortunes were great indeed ! " observed 

" Yes ! and I imderstand King Francis means 
to take advantage of them, by Teiv«w\Tx^\iSi«}Se!ii«8i, 



Peace does not continue long between the rival 

" I suppose they truly and thoroughly dislike 
each other ? " 

" You would not have said so, Alberto, had you 
seen what I once saw. It was after the treaty of 
Nice. I was conveying the Emperor to Barcelona, 
when contrary winds drove us to the isle of St. 
Margaret, oflF the coast of Provence. We had not 
been there many hours, when a messenger arrived 
from King Francis, inviting his rival to take 
shelter in his dominions, and proposing a personal 
interview with him at Aigues-mortes. Charles, 
resolved not to be outdone in complaisance, in- 
stantly repaired thither. No sooner had we cast 
anchor in the road, than Francis, relying entirely 
on the Emperor s honour for his safety, visited him 
on board my galley. A touching sight it was, my 
boy, to witness the meeting of those two great 
rivals for power ! — to behold the warm demonstra- 
tions of esteem and aflfection with which Charles 
received Francis, and the generous confidence and 
frank gaiety of the French monarch. The next 
day the Emperor returned the visit. He landed at 
AJ^es-mortes with as little ijiecaution, and met 


with a reception equally cordial. He remained on 
shore all night, the two monarchs vieing with each 
other in expressions of respect and friendship. 
Thus, after twenty years of open hostility, or secret 
enmity — ^after so many injuries given and endured 
on both sides — after having openly challenged 
each other to single combat — after the Emperor 
had publicly declared Francis to be a prince void 
of honour or integrity — after Francis had accused 
him of breach of faith and deceitftd conduct — such 
an interview was most extraordinary and sur- 
prising! In one moment all seemed to be for- 
gotten; suspicion and distrust gave place to perfect 
confidence ; and from practising the arts of a de- 
ceitftil policy, they assumed on a sudden the liberal 
and open manners of two gallant gentlemen." 
" It must have greatly, astonished you, Signor." 
" It did, Alberto ; but my astonishment increased 
teqfold wjien, not long after, war broke out again 
between them. I then found that their protesta- 
tions of friendship were but as the summer cloud, 
which passeth away. Truth, honour, and kindly 
feeling — all gave way to the love of power." 

Twenty years had passed away since Ajvdxfta. 



Doria restored liberty to his country. The form 
of government then established in Genoa, though 
at first received with eager approbation, did not 
eventually give universal satisfaction. There are 
generally in a republic some turbulent and factious 
spirits who wish to overturn the existing state of 
things. So it was in Grenoa. Though all reverenced 
the disinterested virtue of Doria, and admired his 
character, not a few were jealous of the ascendency 
he had obtained in the councils of the common- 
wealth. Of this number was Lewis Fieschi, Count 
of Lavagna. The richest and most illustrious sub- 
ject in the republic, this young nobleman possessed, 
in an eminent degree, all the qualities which win 
upon the human heart. Of a commanding and 
graceful figure, afiable and gentle in his manners, 
with a manly spirit and a courage unacquainted 
with fear, magnificent even to profusion,, and gehe- 
rous in the extreme, he seemed formed to enjoy 
and adorn social life. But under all this fail^shoW, 
which rendered him exceedingly popular in Grenoa, 
Fieschi concealed an insatiaUe and restless ambi- 
tion, and a spirit that disdained subordination. His 
was a temper that could ill brook a station of infe- 
rioiity, and, jealous of the power which Andrea 


Doria had acqidred in the republic, he determined 
to attempt the overthrow of a domination to which 
he could not submit. For this purpose he placed 
himself at the head of a dark and dangerous con- 

Now Fieschi had a wife, a lady of the noble 
house of Gibo, whom he loved with tender aflfec- 
tion, and whose beauty and virtue rendered her 
worthy of his love. She was little aware of the 
aspiring thoughts which filled her husband's mind, 
though she knew him to be dissatisfied with the 
government; for often he would complain that 
Andrea Doria possessed too much influence in the 
councils of the republic, an influence which might 
be hurtful to the interests of Genoa. On these 
occasions, his sensible and amiable young wife 
would point out to him the peace and freedom they 
eiijoye^, and the wise measures which Doria took 
to s€$(^e the welfare of their country. 

" (Jreat as the power is which he undoubtedly 
possesses, we may surely and safely depend on his 
never abusing it, my dear husband," she said one 
day, as they walked together in the gardens of 
their palace. " Doria's age, his love of liberty, and 
his moderation, afibrd us ample aeewxit.^ \W\ W 


will not stain the close of his days by attempting 
to overturn a fabric which it has been the pride 
and labour of his life to erect." 

" It is not so much Andrea Doria that I fear, 
as Andrea Doria's nephew, Giannetino," replied 
Fieschi. " He is a haughty, insolent, arrogant 
young man, and overbearing to such a degree as 
would scarcely be tolerated in one bom to reign, 
but is quite insupportable in the citizen of a free 
state. This youth is destined to be the heir of his 
uncle's private fortune, and I know he aims, like^ 
wise, at being his successor in power. But that 
shall never be, while I can prevent it." 

" Let not the thought of such a thing disturb 
you, my dear lord," said the Countess, aflFection- 
ately. " There are too many good and wise men 
in the republic for us to fear that the power and 
influence which the virtuous Doria justly possesses 
should descend like an hereditary possession to a 
young man unworthy of it. Besides, we wifl tope 
that the brave old admiral may yet live many years 
to guide the helm of state afiairs." 

Fieschi smiled, and turned away to play with 

his little girl. He well knew that at that very 

moment he and otheia "wete engaged in a deep 


conspirax^y to assassinate the two Donas, with the 
principal persons of their party, to overturn the 
established system of government, and to place 
Fieschi himself on the ducal throne of Genoa. 
Time, however, and preparations were requisite to 
ripen such a design for execution, and while em- 
ployed in carrying on these, Fieschi made it his 
principal care to guard against everything that 
might betray his secret, or excite suspicion. With 
his wife he was not always so guarded ; he occa- 
sionally betrayed the bitterness of his feelings 
towards the Dorias, as in the present instance ; but 
in public, he entered into all kinds of pleasure, and 
seemed to think of nothing but amusement. None 
but his confederates knew that under those ever 
ready smiles and that careless gaiety, there lurked 
a deep and deadly purpose ! At the same time he 
paid court with such artful address to the two 
Doriaa, as imposed not only on the generous and 
unsaspecting mind of Andrea, but also on his 
less truthful and more designing nephew Gian- 

On the morning of the 2d of January, 1547, the 
Count of Lavagna appeared in unusual spirits. 
After spending some time in diacowiOTi^^S^3ft.^»a» 


wife and seeing his friends, charming all by the 
gaiety of his manner and the sprightly wit of his 
conversation, he proceeded to visit the Dorias, and 
paid his court to them with his usual marks of 
respect. He was received with frank-hearted cor- 
diality by the brave old admiral, who little dreamed 
of the storm which had been so long gathering, 
and was now ready to burst with fearful violence 
over his head. 

" Ah ! " said Fieschi, as he left the palace, 
and his smiles gave place to a dark look of 
triumphant hatred, " I have them now I Little do 
they dream that this day is the last of their pride 
aitd power I The reign of the Dorias is over, and 
now for that of Fieschi ! " 

The palace of the ambitious Count of Lavagna 
stood alone in the middle of a large court, sur- 
rounded by a high wall. The gates had been set 
open early in the morning of this day, and all 
persons without distinction were allowed to enter, 
but strong guards posted within the court suffered 
no one to return. Some of the conspirators had 
dispersed themselves through the city, and invited 
to an entertainment iu Fieschi's palace the principal 


citizens whom they knew to be weary of the Dona 
administration, and to desire a change of govern- 
ment. As evening approached, a vast number of 
persons filled the palace. Only a few, however, 
were aware of the purpose for which they were 
assembled ; the rest, astonished at finding, instead 
of the preparations for a feast, a court crowded with 
armed men, and apartments filled with instruments 
of war, gazed on each other with a mixture of 
curiosity, impatience, and terror. Whilst they were 
in this state of uncertainty and agitation, Fieschi 
appeared amongst them. 

" My Mends," said he — ^and his eye was bright, 

and his smile gay as ever — " you are most welcome. 

Though I have not called you to partake of an 

entertainment, but to join in a deed of valour, 

trhich will lead you to liberty and immortal 

enown, I feel not the less assured of your co- 

peration and assistance. Hear me, my friends ! 

"he exorbitant and intolerable authority of Andrea 

oria, and the ambitious designs of Giannetino, 

3 no longer to be borne. The tyrants must be 

t off. I have taken the most effectual measures 

this purpose. My associates are numerous — all 

>repared. Happily, the tyiaivta «t^ ^ ^^^SNxxfc ^^ 


I have been provident. They dream not of the 
doom that awaits them, and they will feel the 
blow before they suspect any hostile hand to be 
near. Let ns, then, sally forth that we may de- 
liver our country by one generous effort — an effort 
almost unaccompanied by danger, and certain of 

These words, uttered with eloquence and fervour, 
made the desired impression on the audience. 
Fieschi's vassals, ready to execute whatever their 
master should command, received his discourse 
with a murmur of applause. To many whose 
fortunes were desperate, the prospect of an insur- 
rection was very agreeable. Those of higher rank 
and more virtuous sentiments, though struck with 
horror and surprise at so atrocious a proposition, 
yet feared to object to it, surrounded as they were 
by persons who waited only a signal from their 
leader to perpetrate the greatest crime. With one 
voice, then, all applauded, or feigned to applaud, 
the imdertaking. 

Fieschi, having thus encouraged his associates, 

before he gave them his last orders, proceeded to 

the apartment of his countess. The noise of the 

mmed men who crowded th^ court and palace 


having long before this reached her ears, she feared 
some hazardous enterprise was at hand, and trem- 
bled for her husband. 

" Oh ! my dear lord," she exclaimed, as he 
entered the room, "I am glad to see you; my 
woman's heart has been fiill of fears, and you are 
come to calm them. What means this gathering 
of your friends and vassals ? this clash of arms, and 
hurrying to and fro of armed men ? What does it 
mean, my dear Lewis ? I fear, I greatly fear, you 
are on the eve of some hazardous expedition. Is 
it so?" 

" We are on the eve of an expedition certainly, . 
my love," replied Fieschi, smiling, "but not a 
hazardous one by any means. Be not alarmed, my 
Emilia, I stir not from Genoa." 

" Ah ! it is then as I feared ! " said the agitated 
countess. " Fieschi I you are conspiring against 
the government, and the life of Andrea Doria ! " 
and she burst into tears. 

" Nay, my beloved wife, be not so distressed," 
said Fieschi, soothing her with the utmost tender- 
ness and affection, " we are but about to restore 
liberty to Genoa'; and as to Doria, he has lived long 
enough for a tyrant." 


" Ah, my dear husband, say not so," replied the 
weepine countess ; " stain not your hands with so 
foul a crime. Doria is wise, and good, and virtuoDS ; 
he will listen to any representations you have to 
make. Oh ! let me entreat you, by the love you 
bear me, to abandon this fearful undertaking." 

^' I cannot do so, Emilia ; I have gone too far to 
Btop. After what has passed to-day, my own life 
would be in jeopardy." 

" And are you not about to risk it now ? fearfully 
risk it? Oh I Lewis, my husband ! for the sake of 
our children — ^by the love you bear that sleeping 
boy, your only son, let me implore you not to ex- 
pose your precious life to such imminent danger — 
let me entreat you to give up so wild and wicked a 

The Count of Lavagna for a moment bent over 
the lovely infant sleeping so peacefully, and as he 
kissed its fair forehead, the father's heart seemed 
touched ; he appeared to hesitate in his purpose j 
but it was only for an instant ; and sterner thought 
took possession of his breast. 

" It cannot be, Emilia," he said, " I am pledged 
to save Genoa. The change will be soon effected, 
mjr dear wife, for Doria is quite unconscious of any 


conspiracy against him, consequently wiU be unable 
to resist. Your husband will, to-morrow, be at the 
head of the government, and you will be, as your 
beauty and virtues deserve you should be, a very 
queen in Genoa." 

"Oh nol I would not have it so;" said the 
countess, shuddering ; " I should be a wretched 
queen. But I have been a happy wife, Lewis ; you 
have ever anticipated my slightest wish ; refuse not 
to hear me now, my dear husband ; separate your- 
self from these wicked men ; go to Doria, and con- 
fess all ; he has a noble heart, and will forgive." 

" Never ! " replied Fieschi. " You ask impossi- 
l>ilities, Emilia. My course is taken. Farewell, 
my love ; you shall either never see me more, or 
you shall to-morrow behold everything in Genoa 
subject to your power." 

He tenderly embraced her, and strode from the 

It was midnight, and the people of Genoa slept 
the security of peace, when Fieschi and his band 

conspirators, numerous, desperate, and well- 
aed, rushed forth to execute their wicked plan, 

sy soon got possession of the city ^ia.\fta»^«sA^ 


the admiral's galleys, not, however, without meet- 
ing with some resistance ; and ere long every part 
of Grenoa was filled with noise and tumult. The 
streets re-echoed with the cry of " Fieschi and 
Liberty I " At the sound of that name, so popular 
and beloved, many of the lower orders took arms 
and joined the conspirators. The nobles and friends 
of Doria, on the contrary, astonished and alarmed, 
shut the gates of their houses, and thought of no- 
thing but of securing them from pillage. At length, 
the noise excited by all this violence and confusion 
reached the Doria palace. Giannetino was the first 
to be aroused. He imagined the noise was occa- 
sioned by a mutiny of the sailors, and starting 
immediately from his bed, called together a few 
attendants, and hurried towards the harbour. The 
unfortunate young man had not proceeded far, when 
he was met by some of the conspirators. Instantly 
recognising him, they exclaimed, " It is the younger 
Doria ! the proud Giannetino ! Down with him !" 
and falling on the hapless youth with the utmost 
fury, they murdered him on the spot. 

In the meantime the Admiral, awakened by the 
tumult, was hurrying on his clothes, when Alberto 
Jiiaratti hastily entered the apartment. ^' There is 


an insurrection, Admiral ! " exclaimed the young 
officer ; " the mob approach the palace — save your- 
self, I entreat you !" 

** Explain your words, Alberto," said the Admi- 
ral, calmly ; *' who heads this outbreak?" 

" Fieschi, Count of Lavagna ; the city is in the 
hands of him and his adherents." 

" Fieschi I is it possible?" exclaimed Doria, in 
great surprise. 

" It is too true. He has a numerous and armed 
band with him. There is not a moment to lose, 
noble Signer ; your life is in the utmost danger." 

" I have faced danger before now," said the brave 
old admiral, buckling on his sword ; " call out the 
guard ; I will soon bring this foolish people to order." 

" The guard is overpowered. Admiral; your 
galleys are in the rioters' hands ; there is no re- 
source but instant flight." 

" Flight ! do you talk to Andrea Doria of flight, 
Alberto ? Call my nephew ; call Giannetino. These 
disturbers of the public peace shall soon be silenced. 
Why do you pause?" he continued, looking at the 
terrified attendants ; " call my nephew, instantly." 

" Alas ! noble Admiral," said Alberto, " your 
nephew has been slain in the tumult." 


" Slain ! my nephew slain ! Oh ! Alberto, un- 
say those cruel words 1 you speak not ; oh ! my 
Giannetino ! child of my affections 1 would that I 
had died instead of thee ! " And the old man hid 
his fece in his hands, and groaned in aagnish. 

It was a terrible blow to Andrea Doria ! He 
had brought up the youth from a child ; lavished 
on him the utmost tenderness and affection^ and 
made him the heir to his house and fortunes. True, 
Giannetino was not worthy of his love, but, with 
the partiality of an aged relative, the Admiral over- 
looked his faults, and saw only his good qualities. 
And now he was gone ! the last prop of his solitary 
old age ! his bright days suddenly cut short by 
violent hands. Oh 1 it was a terrible blow ! 

And in this state of anguish, and whilst the 
tumult of the approaching niob came nearer and 
nearer, Alberto found it less difficult to persuade 
the sorrow-stricken man to retire to a place of 
safety. Being fully assured that all resistance 
was hopeless in the present state of affairs, and 
yielding to the earnest solicitations of his friends 
and dependants, Doria mounted a horse which 
had been prepared for him, and sought safety in 


In the midst of this general consternation, a few 
senators assembled in the senate-house to concert, 
if possible, some measures for allaying the tumult, 
and restoring peace to the city. All agreed that it 
was useless then to attempt to resist the conspira- 
tors by force, and that nothing remained but to 
treat with them. Deputies were accordingly sent 
to learn from Fieschi what were the concessions 
with which he would be satisfied, or rather to sub- 
mit to any terms he might please to prescribe. 

But where was Fieschi? Alasl the unhappy 
man had already paid the penalty of his crime ! 

Hearing a sudden uproar on board the admiral's 
galley, he feared the slaves were about to overpower 
his associates, and hastened thither in some alarm. 
Stepping precipitately on the plank which led from 
the shore to the vessel, it overturned, and he fell 
into the sea. Being loaded with heavy armour, he 
immediately sank to the bottom; and at the very 
moment when he was about to take ftdl posses- 
sion of everything his ambitious heart could desire^ 
Fieschi, Count of Lavagna, perished in the deep 
waters ! 

" We come from the senate-house," said the 
deputies, approaching a small group of the principal 



conspirators, " and we desire to treat with your 
leader. Where is the Count of Lavagna ?" 

The few conspirators, who had just learned the 
fate of Fieschi, desired above everything to keep it 
secret, till a treaty with the senators should put 
the city entirely in their power. They knew how 
much depended on this, and trusted to succeed in 
concealing the fatal news, when all their hopes 
were disconcerted by the imprudence of Jerome 
Fieschi, the Count's younger brother. 

" Where is the Count of Lavagna, you ask ?" 
he said, with an air of childish vanity ; " I am now 
the only person to whom that title belongs, and 
with me you must treat." 

These words discovered to his friends as well as 
enemies what had happened. While the deputies, 
with admirable presence of mind, immediately took 
high ground, and made high demands, suitable to 
this change in their]|circumstances, the conspirators, 
dismayed at the death of a man they had loved and 
trusted, and placing no confidence in Jerome, a 
giddy, inexperienced youth, felt their courage die 
away and their hearts sink within them. Their 
leader was gone, and with him the spirit which 
h&d aniinated the enterprise. There was no one 


who could supply his place. Many had obeyed 
his orders merely from a desire to please the popu- 
lar young noble; they desired no change in the 
government, and scarcely knew the object at which 
he aimed. But he was no more ; and, sad and 
dispirited, the conspirators withdrew, — some to their 
houses, hoping that amidst the darkness of the night 
they might have passed unobserved, and might 
remain unknown ; and some, seeking safety by a 
timely retreat, were, before break of day, many 
miles from that city, which but a few short hours 
before had been so nearly in their own hands. 

The next morning all was quiet in Genoa ; not 
an enemy was to be seen: and the conspirators 
having (inducted their ent^rise with moJe noise 
than bloodshed, but few marks of violence remained. 
Two, however, had fallen on that eventful night, 
whose loss was long and bitterly mourned. The 
widowed Countess of Lavagna sat in her darkened 
chamber, in the deepest grief; whilst the aged Doria 
lamented the death of one who had been the pride 
and joy of his declining years. The ambition of 
Fieschi, and the haughtiness of Giannetino, had 
alike proved fatal to each. 

' The sun was shining brightly on the magaifeiA\>w\. 




city of Grenoa and on the calm blue waters of its 
bay, when Andrea Dona returned to his home. He 
was welcomed back by the inhabitants, who poured 
forth to meet him, with loud acclamations of joy ; 
but he scarcely heeded them ; his heart was fhlL 

Alas ! the first object that met his eyes on his 
entrance into his palace, was the mangled body of 
his beloved nephew. It had been conveyed to the 
hall, to await interment The brave old admiral, 
who had faced danger and death so many times, 
was quite overcome at the sad spectacle. 

" Will you not move on, noble Signor?" said 
Alberto, who had attended him, and affectionately 
endeavoured to soothe his grief; " this is no place 
for you." But Doria moved not. 

" Never a word he answer'd. 
In Borrow strong and deep; 
Bat he wept, that aged warrior. 
Tears sech as women weep." 

It was a heavy blow for him ! and yet, such was 
the moderation and magnanimity of this noble- 
minded old man, that the sentence passed against 
the conspirators did not exceed the just measure of 
^Ferity requisite for the support of tie government, 


and was dictated neither by the violence of resent- 
ment nor the rancour of private revenge. 

When Andrea Doria was in his eighty-sixth 
year he went to sea again, to attack his old enemies, 
the Turks. His death took place in 1560, he being 
then ninety-four years of age. Though he had been 
for so many years at the head of the republic of Ge- 
noa, and in high favour with the Emperor Charles, 
he left no very large fortune behind him, owing to 
his princely style of living and his generous dis- 
position. He died deeply lamented by his country- 
men, who paid the highest honours to the memory 
of the departed patriot. To this day the name of 
Andrea Doria is reverenced and loved in Genoa. 

'' His land is one vast monoment. 
Bearing the record high. 
Of a spirit in itself content. 
And a name that cannot die." 

Ko. V. 


" Thbbe is a glorious city in the sea ; 
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, 
Ebbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed 
Clings to the marble of ber palaces. 
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro. 
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, 
Inyisible ; and from the land we went. 
As to a floatinig city ; — steering in. 
And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 
So smoothly, silently." 

Such is Venice the Beautiful ; for thirteen hun- 
dred years Queen of the Adriatic ! Seated on the 
waters, she appears at a distance like a glorious float- 
ing city — her domes, her spires, her cupolas, and 
towers, glittering in the sunbeams. A dream-like, 
silent city, unlike any other in the world ! The 
rumbling of a wheel, or the tramp of a horse, are 


sounds neTer heard in her streets, if such may be 
called her noiseless, narrow, paved passages. No ; 
her streets are of water ; instead of calling for your 
carriage, you must call for your gondola, in which 
you silently glide from one part of the city to 
another. Splendid marble stairs, with marble 
balustrades, lead up at once from the water to the 
hall door. No less than four hundred and fifty 
bridges connect the islands on which Venice is 
built ; the chief of which is the celebrated bridge of 
the Rialto, thrown over the Grand Canal. The 
sides of this canal are lined with marble palaces of 
large size. 

There is much to admire in this faiiy-like and 

once splendid city. The grand square of St. Mark, 

so gorgeous and magnificent, with its ducal palace,- 

long the residence of the Doges of Venice — its 

cathedral, where you see nothing, tread on nothing, 

but what is precious, the floor all agate and jasper, 

the roof mosaic, the aisle hung with the banners of 

subject cities — its campanile, or belfry, with its 

mmense bell, only rung in former times by order 

f the Doge — the Bridge of Sighs, connecting the 

ucal palace with the state prisons— the magnificent 

ranite columns, on one of which ^tooi. ^3ft& ^^<^^* 



brated " winged lion of St. Mark," cheri8hed by 
the Venetians as the symbol of their far extended 
power ; these, and much more, attract the eye of 
the traveller, and call forth his admiration. Tliere, 
too, is the Giant's Staircase, leading into the palace^ 
where may be seen the two lions' mouths, which 
gaped day and night to receive the anonymous 
informations that ensured the safe gratification of 
private revenge. Woe be to him who was accused 
to the State by a paper dropped into the lion's 
mouth I He generally disappeared a short time 
after, and was never heard of again. The mys- 
terious Council of Ten — ^the dreadful dungeons — 
the secret and silent executioners — ^alone knew his 

This singular and beautiful city is fast sinking 
into decay ; in another century, perhaps, few traces 
will remain of the once proud and queen«like 

" Oh Venice ! Yenice ! when thy marble waUs 
Are lerel with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken hallB, 
A loud lament along the sweeping sea !" 

It was in her high and palmy days, when the 
magniBcence and splendour she displayed were 


unequaDed in Italy, that the inhabitants of the sea- 
girt city prepared one year to celebrate the Feast 
of the Ascension. Every citizen had donned his 
best attire, and wore his gayest smiles. The gon- 
dolas were decked out ; and all made ready to wit- 
ness the annual ceremony of the day — the marriage 
of the Doge with the Adriatic. 

A splendid vessel, called the Bucentaur, was in 
waiting. It was gilded from prow to stem, covered 
with an awning of rich purple silk, fitted up with 
crimson velvet and gold, and adorned with statuary. 
At the appointed hour, the Doge, Francesco Foscari, 
the senators, the nobles, and persons of quality, 
with the foreign ambassadors, all dressed in their 
state robes, entered the vessel, and, set in motion 
by rowers concealed in the lower deck, the Bucen- 
taur sailed out into the open sea, followed by innu- 
merable gondolas. The gondola is a light and 
elegant boat— a kind of canoe — impelled by two 
gondoliers, who accompany the strokes of their 
)addles by singing a melodious ballad. It is 
ainted black, in consequence of a law having been 
assed to that effect, to restrain the extravagance 
■ the nobles, — and prescribing likewise its size 
id form. 



When all were in the open sea, the Doge, with 
much ceremony, threw a gold ring into the blue 
waters of the Adriatic, saying in a loud voice, 
" We marry thee, Sea, in token of that true and 
perpetual dominion which the Eepublic has over 

The Bitcentaur, with its noble company, then 
returned to Venice. 

And no more will the gay vessel sail out in 
gorgeous splendour to the marriage ceremony! 
those days are gone for Venice ! 

" Her glory is departed. 

And her pleasure is no more. 
Like a pale queen, broken-hearted, 

Left lonely on the shore ; 
Ko more the waves are cumber'd 

With her galleys bold and free, 
For her days of pride are numbered. 

And she rules no more the sea. 
Her sword has left her keeping. 

Her prows forget the tide. 
And the Adriatic, weeping, 

Wails round his mourning bride." 

" This is an imposing sight indeed!" exclaimed 
Giovanni Micheli to his father, a Venetian noble, 
as in their gondola they witnessed the ceremony ; 


'* our beautiftd city may well be termed queen of 
the waters ; but I know not exactly the origin of 
the custom ; can you tell me, father?" 

"I can, my son. About three hundred years 
since, the Eepublic assisted Pope Alexander III. 
against his enemy Frederick Barbarossa, and 
destroyed his fleet. His holiness, who had taken 
refuge in Venice, was very grateftd for this help, 
and when the Doge Ziani returned in triumph to 
the city, he went to meet him, attended by a train 
of nobles, and a vast concourse of people, who rent 
the air with joyftd acclamations. Then the pope, 
embracing the doge, gave him a golden ring, saying, 
* Take this ring, and present it to the sea, in token 
of your dominion over it. Enjoin your successors 
to perform annually the same ceremony, that suc- 
ceeding ages may learn it was your valour which 
acquired this great prerogative, and subjugated the 
ocean, even as a wife is subject to her husband.' 
Such was the origin of the doge's marriage with 
the Adriatic, Giovanni, and long may the ceremony 
be continued ! " 

" Father," said the boy with sparkling eyes as 
he gazed over the waters, ." I should like to be a 
doge ! how proud and happy should I be thia da.^ V 



"Not SO happy as you are, GiovannL Prouc 
the Doge Francesco Foscari well may be, placec 
as he is^t the head of our flourishing Ld ^werfi. 
Eepublic ; but happy he is not." 

" Not happy ! " exclaimed Giovanni in surprise 
" how can that be ? he seems to have everythinj 
he could wish for ; to be in the exalted station h 
is, one would think was alone sufficient to secure 
his happiness." 

^'Alas! that is the very cause of his constan 
sorrow," replied Micheli. " As doge, he has beei 
obliged to pronounce sentence of banishment agains 
his only, his loved son." 

" Oh, how sad ! " 

"Yes; most earnestly desirous was Foscari o 
being elected doge, and much opposition he encoun 
tered before he attained the dignity. He at lengtl 
gained the height of his ambition, but only to biinj 
down upon himself unspeakable misery I " 

"But what offence had his son committed?' 
asked the boy. " Surely one who has been dogi 
for so many years, and is so beloved by the people 
might have pardoned, if he willed it?" 

" My son," said the noble in a low voice, afibe 
being satisfied that the gondoliers were out o 


hb&tnxs, "thesa are matters rarely spoken of, but 
it is n^ht you should kuow what C happened, 
though at the same time I warn you never to men- 
tion the subject* Any remark on the proceedings 
of the CouncU of Ten might cost your father his 
life. Be silent therefore. You must know, then, 
that an;dous as the Doge Foscari was to attain his 
present high office, he soon discovered that the 
throne he coveted was anything but a seat of 
repose. Accordingly, after some years, wearied 
wiU the fectiouB whi4 ascribed aU Lasers to the 
prince, he tendered his resignation to the senate, 
and was refused. At the end of nine years more, 
he again expressed his wish to retire^and was 
again refused. On this occasion, the council obliged 
him to take an oath that he would retain his bur- 
densome dignity for Ufe." 

" But his son ? what of him ?" inquired Giovanm 

^' He had four sons, but three^ of them died, and 
to Jacopo, the survivor, he now looked for the 
continuation of his name, and the support of his 
declining age; and tenderly attached were they 
one to the other. The young Jacopo married a 
daughter of the illustrious house qf (^n.tA2dxNi\ ^k^ 


nuptials were celebrated with great joy, and the 
doge began to look forward to some degree of hap- 
piness in his old age. The birth of a grandson 
increased his hopes. Alas ! they were fatally dis- 
appointed. About five years since, Jacopo Foscari 
was denounced to the Council of Ten as having 
received presents from foreign potentates. This 
offence is considered by our law as one of the most 
heinous which a noble can commit. He was seized 
and put to the torture, his wretched father being 
obliged to preside. And from the lips of that 
father, who loved him so tenderly — ^who believed 
him innocent — he received the sentence which 
banished him for life to NapoU di Romania." 

" But he was not guilty. Sir, was he ?" 

" It is not easy to establish innocence before the 
Council of Ten," said Micheli, sinking his voice to 
a whisper. " The utmost the doge could do, not- 
withstanding his services to the Eepublic,. was to 
bbtain permission for his son to reside at Treviso, 
and that his attached wife should be allowed to 
accompany him in his exile." 

" What a trial for the Prince !" exclaimed GKo*' 
vanni. " How does he bear it, father?" 

*^ TVbnderfuUy. He lets no one perceive, in hi»' 


cahn, dignified demeanour, the heart-consuming 
grief that is within. The feelings of the father 
appear to be logt in the stem justice of the doge ; 
but it is not so. Every hour he mourns his beloved 
Jacopo ! " 

" But could he not procure a remission of the 
sentence? You say he has served Venice well?" 

"Venice owes him much, my son. By his 
courage, prudence, and sagacity, he has increaaed 
her elory not less than her dominion. He has 
added four rich provinces to the EepubUc, and 
rendered hriUiant services to Ws country. During 
the many years in which he has been at the head 
of the State, he has by his conduct gained the 
respect of the senate, and the love of the people. 
But all this availed nothing with the Ten ; — all 
this could not save his son ! " 

" Poor Jacopo ! I pity him much, but I pity his 
father still more," said Giovanni. 

" They are to be pitied indeed!" replied Micheli. 
" But, Oiovanni, my dear boy, I charge you never 
to mention what I have told you. It might bring 
you and me into trouble. Make no remarks, what- 
ever you hear ; remember the lion's mouth ! " 

These last words were uttered in a Ioyt im.i5Xft&- 


Bive whisper, and the young Venetian boy, silently 
pressing his father's hand, signified that he under- 
stood their import, and would obey* 

^^See!" said Micheli, after a pause of some 
minutes in the conversation, during which they 
glided in their graceful gondola over the placid 
waters, "how glorious looks the Bride of the 
Adriatic to-day I She is decked in unusual splen- 
dour for the occasion. See, Giovanni, in what 
a flood of golden sunshine she reposes I Look at 
her winged lion bidding defiance to her enemies 1 
See the glorious standard of St. Mark unfurled to 
the breeze! see the brazen steeds glittering and 
glowing in the sun ! Beautiful Venice I well may 
thy sons love thee, and the nations fear thee ! " 

Giovanni gazed in delight and admiration. For- 
getting for a time the troubles of the doge, he 
thought only of the fair city before him ; and pride 
and joy filled his heart that he too was a Venetian. 

That city was then in the height of her pro- 
sperity. The exhausfless treasures of the East 
were poured into her lap ; — ^her vessels ruled the 
seas; — her merchants were princes; — she was "a 
queen with an unequalled dower," 

Tio8e were the days when 


'' Many a subjeet land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Wbere Yenice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles." 

But within those marble halls was many an aching 

In the winter of this year an assassination took 
place in the streets of Venice. Hermalao Donato, 
a Chief of the Ten, was murdered on his return 
from a sitting of that council, at his own door, by 
unknown hands. Amazed at the indignity offer^ 
to them, as well as at the magnitude of the offence, 
the council eagerly caught at the slightest clue 
which suspicion could afford as to the perpetrator 
of the crime. With stem coimtenances and bent 
brows they met in that hall where sentence had 
been passed on so many victims. At the head of 
the council board sat the Doge Foscari. 

" Upon hia calm and noble face 
Deep thoughts had left their Uying trace, — 
Thoughts, such as press, with giant power, 
A common life into an hour ; 
Each line of lofty meaning there 
Was graven by the hand of Care, 
And the flash of that triumphant eye. 
That arching lip's stem miyesty, 
Told of full many a foe withstood, — 
Without,^ disdain'd— within, subdued r 


" Signers," said one of the Ten when all had 
assembled, " I am happy in being able to give you, 
as I believe, some clue as to the author of this 
tnost barbarous murder. It chanced this morning 
that I was in my boat off Mestre, when hailing one 
from the city, and inquiring what news was stir- 
ring, we were informed of the assassination of the 
noble Donatx). Immediately returning to Venice, 
I foimd to my astonishment that few were aware 
of the crime which had been committed. This 
aroused my suspicions as to my informant, and on 
inquiry, I learned that he had been seen in the city 
on the evening of the murder. Is it not strange. 
Signers, that this person should have been ac- 
quainted with that which was not generally known 
for some hours after?" 

" It savours strongly of guilt," they replied. 

" Yet," said the Doge, " his frank disclosure 
would seem to disprove his participation in the 
crime. The author of such a deed is not likely 
thus unseasonably and prematurely to disclose its 
committal, is he, think you. Signers?" 

" He doubtless put on the show of frankness to 
ward off suspicion," observed one of the Ten. 

"-He -should be arrested at once." 


To this all agreed. 

** Who is the man ?" inquired the doge, as paper, 
pen, and ink were laid before him. 

" His nime is Pietro Ranieri, — a servant of the 
exiled Jacopo Foscari," was the reply. 

The Prince spoke not— started not. But those 
near him might have observed a scarcely perceptible 
quivering of the lip, when that loved name fell 
thus unexpectedly on his ear. 

" Signors, there is the order for the arrest," he 
said in calm tones, " I believe our business is con- 
cluded for the day ;" and with a dignified step he 
left the council hall. 

" He does not appear to feel much for his 
son," said one, " and yet he must be aware he is 

" He shall feel then, ere long," was the reply. 

" How, Loredano? what mean you?" 

" How ! can there be a doubt who is the author 
of this murder? Who could be more likely to arm 
the hand of an assassin against a Chief of the Ten 
than one whom the Ten have visited with punish- 
ment? If the servant will not confess, the master* 
must." He turned away, muttering, " I have 
vowed to be revenged on him, and 1 m\!L" 




Ranieri was arrested ; but though tortured in the 
most cruel manner that malice could devise, the 
unfortunate man denied all knowledge of the 
murder, and not a word did he utter that could 
justify the suspicions entertained against his master. 
Jacopo Foscari was, nevertheless, recalled firom 
banishment, and in the presence of his aged father, 
had to imdergo similar tortures to those inflicted on 
his servant. And though they fidled to wring 
from him the avowal of having even the slightest 
knowledge of the crime of which he was accused, 
the unfortunate young noble was convicted without 
proof, and sentenced to be banished for life to the 
remote island of Candia. 

Again had the unhappy doge to pronounce the 
words which tore from him his last — his only son 
— his innocent Jacopo ! 

Yes, — Jacopo was innocent. A short time 
afterwards, a Venetian noble confessed on his 
death-bed that he had himself murdered Donato, 
from motives of private revenge. Yet this distinct 
proof of the young Foscari's innocence wrought no 
change in his unjust and cruel sentence ! 

"I cannot believe the young noble guilty of 
sacb a deed/* said a citizen of Venice one evening 


to a friend, as they stood together on the Rialto, a 
few days after the second banishment of Jacopo, 
" It was an act unworthy one of the Foscari." 

" Were he not guilty the Ten would not have 
condemned him," replied his friend. 

Nay, Filippo, the torture he endured must 
have wrung from him a confession, if so." 

" He may have great fortitude, Giuseppe. I was 
told he uttered not a word or a groan. His father 
is not easily moved, you know," 

" Ah, the doge ! what must he not have suffered 

in beholding his son's anguish ! What a trial for 

a kind and loving father to undergo ! He feels, 

Filippo, he feels deeply, though he lets it not 

appear. To believe him innocent, as he must have 

done, and yet to pronoimce the fatal sentence 

vhich sent the noble youth from his home for ever ! 

ly heart bleeds for him." 

" So does mine. But Giuseppe, it is as well not 

talk of these matters. It is for the Council to 

dge of the guilt of the young Foscari. They 

sire not our opinion on their proceedings, and it 

\afer not to give it. Be advised." 

Well," replied Giuseppe, as he turned way, 

only wish the Ten would act mtVi ^\vVO^^ ^ssssije. 


justice, and a great deal more mercy, and then I 
should be satisfied." 

The young man said this more to himself than 
to his companion, but the words were heard where 
he least intended they should be. One who was 
not friendly towards him, passing by, marked the 
incautious speech. That night, a muffled figure, 
hurrying up the Giant's Staircase, dropped a paper 
into the lion's mouth. Ere two days had passed, 
Giuseppe had disappeared from Venice. His friends 
never learned his fate ! 

It was no wonder that Micheli warned his son to 
be careful of what he said in Venice ! 

" A strange mysterious power was there, 
A power that never slumher'd, never pardon'd^ 
All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere ; 
Entering the closet and the sanctuary. 
Most present when least thought of — nothing dropp'd 
In secret, when the heart was on the lips, 
JS^othing in feverish sleep, but instantly 
Observed and judged." 

It was a wicked and fearful system, that Vene- 
tian Inquisition I With its ever watchfiil spies, its 
tortures, its secret dungeons, its mysterious, silent 
executions, it exercised a despotic sway over the 
lives and fortunes of the Venetians, and fiilled their 


minds with an unspeakable dread. The secresy 
and despatch of this tribunal excited the wonder of 
every citizen of the republic, and taught them to 
veil their sentiments with the utmost caution. 
Alas ! that poor Giuseppe had not concealed his ! 

For six weary years the unfortunate Jacopo 
pined in his Candian prison. Tom from his wife, 
his children, his father, and his country, he almost 
sank beneath his accumulated load of wretchedness. 
The one longing, restless desire of his heart, all 
those weary years, was to return to his beloved 
home. This occupied his thoughts by day, his 
dreams by night. With folded arms he would 
stand and gaze over the waters, hour after hour, 
and day after day, to see if perchance a vessel 
might be coming with tidings of mercy. But none 
such came, — and at last, reduced to despair, the 
unhappy exile resolved on a desperate and danger- 
ous expedient. He wrote a letter to the Duke of 
Milan, requesting his interference and interces- 
sion with the Venetian government in his behalf. 
He knew this was considered a great crime by the 
State, but it was his last hope of seeing Venice 
again. This letter he purposely left whex^ it ^^.% 



seized by the spies, who never ceased to watch 
him, and by them conveyed to the Council of 

Jacopo was instantly recalled to Venice, to un- 
dergo his trial for this new offence. And gladly 
did he obey the summons I His love for Venice 
was an intense love. Though he knew that tor- 
tures and perhaps death awaited him there, he 
cared not, he faltered not, his only desire was to 
behold once more his native land ; and he preferred 
encountering the worst vengeance of his foes to 
dragging out a miserable existence in Candia. 

Swiftly over the waves flew the vessel which 
bore the exile to his home — and, alas ! to his prison 

For the third time was the unhappy doge com- 
pelled to preside at the persecution of his son ; and 
although Jacopo openly avowed that he had writ- 
ten the letter for the sole purpose of being recalled 
to Venice, to answer for this infringement of the 
law — ^that he had never for an instant contemplated 
its reaching the Duke of Milan — ^yet again was the 
wretched father a witness of the agony inflicted 
on his hapless son, in order to extort from him a 
^denial of the act he had previously acknowledged. 


Poor Jacopo remained firm to the last, declaring 
that such only was his motive for writing the let- 
ter ; but in vain he so manfully endured— in vain 
he asserted his innocence. Oncfe moje was the sen- 
tence of perpetual banishment pronounced on him. 
Again did those cruel words issue fi'om the lips of 
the heart-broken father, with the additional seve- 
rity that the first year of his exile was to be passed 
in a prison. 

Oh ! what were all the honours of the doge to 
him in that moment of misery ! 

One interview was the unhappy young noble 
allowed with his family ; one short hour to bid 
them all a last farewell. 

Guarded by two officers, Jacopo Foscari was 
brought from his dungeon, across the Bridge of 
Sighs, to one of the splendid apartments in his 
father's palace. There he met his beloved wife 
and children— a sad, sad meeting ! Jacopo's pale 
cheek spoke too plainly of the tortures he had 
endured, and the weeping Marina, as she gazed 
upon him, could not for some time suppress her 
grief. At length in a voice almost inarticulate 
firom emotion, she said, " My beloved husband, we 
part no more ! " 


" No more ! " said Jacopo starting, " know 
you not the decree of the council, Marina ?" 

" Alas ! too well, my Jacopo, But from hence-* 
forth your exile shall be mine also." 

" My true wife I my only friend on earth ! this 
is indeed a taste of happiness in my cup of misery ! 
But will the Ten permit this ? Have they indeed 
so much mercy?" 

" They have granted my earnest request, Ja- 
copo, but mercy they have none." 

" And our children, Marina? our dear chil- 
dren?" said Foscari, fondly caressing his little 
ones as they stood around him. 

" They will be cared for by the Doge," replied 
their mother, looking on them with tearful eyes ; 
" the mercy of the Ten does not extend so far as 
to permit them to accompany us. Oh Jacopo! 
the wild beasts of the forest are more feeling and 
pitiful than the cruel Ten ! " 

" Hush, my beloved ! we may be watched." . 

" And if we are, can they do more than they 
have done? Has not their malice reached its 

" They might withdraw the permission granted 

jrou, mj Marina." 


"Ah!" sighed Marina, "that would be my 
death-blow I They will tear my children from me, 
but I still shall live whilst I have you to live for, 

" Do not send us away, dear Mamma," said little 
Francesco, the youngest child, " let us go with you 
wherever you go. Papa, will you say that no one 
shall take us away, and then poor Mamma will be 

" My darling boy ! would that I could say it ! " 
was all that Foscari could reply, as he strained the 
prattler to his heart. The little fellow climbed up 
on his father's knee, and looked wistfully in his 

"Why cannot you say it, dear Papa ? " he 
asked, as he put his arm round his neck, " will 
they not obey you? But you seem sorry ; I will 
not go away from you, my own dear papa, I will 
stay with you and love you always. You will let 
me, will you not?" 

The glance of those deep, loving eyes, the sound 
of that childish pleading voice, quite overcame the 
unhappy father. He clasped the boy in his arms, 
and tears rolled down his pale cheeks. 

It was hard indeed to part feomi tbia^ \ji& 


youngest one — ^his loving, playfiil Francesco, who 
had scarcely known a father's care! With his 
noble appearance, his clustering curls, and graceful 
symmetiy, he was just such a child as the poet 
describes, — 

" His little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling. 
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love 

A playfellow he is to all, ^nd yet with cheerful tone 
ite sings his little song of love, when he is left alone. 
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and 

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth ! " 

It was hard indeed to part with such an one ! 

Mastering his emotion, Jacopo turned to the 
window, and looked out on the placid waves of the 
Adriatic. The noiseless city was reposing in the 
sunshine ; nought was heard but the quiet plashing 
of the waters. 

" Beautiful Venice ! " exclaimed the young noble, 
" how truly, how fondly I love thee ! This Adrian 
sea breeze, oh ! how refreshing is it, Marina I how 
unlike the hot gales of Candia ! It gives me new 
life. Oh Venice ! how often have I skimmed over 
thy blue waters in my gondola, a happy, laughing 


boy ! how many times have I, as a youth, breasted 
thy biUows, a daring fearless swimmer ! And now 
thou dost banish me from thee for ever ! And for 
nought, save too great love for my country." 

" My innocent, my persecuted husband," said 
Marina, " think not of thy ungrateful country; 
have no regrets for Venice. I never wish to see it 

At this moment the doge entered the apartment. 

" My father ! " exclaimed Jacopo, as he rose to 
meet him, " my beloved father ! " 

" My son ! my last — my only son ! " murmured 
the aged man, as he fell on Jacopo's neck ; " my 
boy ! my broken-hearted boy ! " 

" Father, I am innocent ! believe me, thy Ja- 
copo hath not disgraced the name of Foscari." 

" Oh, my son ! if thou knewest all ! — ^never wert 
thou so dear to me as now, Jacopo, —and thou 
wilt go, and leave me desolate ! " 

" Not desolate, my father ; these dear ones shall 
take my place ; they shall be the solace and stay 
of your old age." 

" Dear they are ; as yours, doubly dear ; but 
:hey will never be to me what my Jacopo has 
been," said the unhappy doge. 


The sight of his beloved parent's grief — the 
thought that he was about to be separated from 
him for ever, and leave him a childless sorrow- 
stricken man — wrung Jacopo's heart For the 
first time he asked for mercy. 

" Oh my father ! " he exclaimed, " appeal to the 
council; they will show some forbearance, they 
will show some consideration for your grey hairs ; 
Venice owes you much ; they cannot, will not refuse 
you the boon you ask." 

Then the noble old man endeavoured to exhibit 
some portion of composure. 

" Such a request would be made in utter hope- 
lessness, my son," he said, in a calm voice. " My 
duty to the State forbids me to urge it Gk), Ja- 
copo, submit to the will of your country, and seek 
nothing further." 

The long and exquisite pain he had endured 
without a groan or a murmur — the sorrows he had 
undergone — the anguish of that moment, — quite 
unnerved the young Foscari. 

" But they will relent in some years,^ he said, 

as the tears rolled thick and fast down his cheeks ; 

** O tell me I may come back again ! let there be 

mxme point of time, however distant, to which I may 


look forward as the term of my banishment. Help 
me, father, I pray ; plead for your son, your only 
son ! Let me live in hope that I shall see my loved 
home once more." 

" Alas ! my dearest son, it cannot be, nor can 
I ask it," replied the doge. " Thrice have you 
been sentenced. It is not for me to trifle with the 
laws of Venice, or make light of its decrees. Sub- 
mit, my son ; your father's duty to the State is a 
paramount duly." 

The doge well knew that the Ten, while they 
gloried in his humiliation, would reject his petition 
with scorn. 

But the self-restraint he had exercised proved 
too much for the enduring and broken-hearted old 
man. On retiring from his son's presence he fell 
senseless in the arms of his attendants. And the 
unfortunate Jacopo, innocent of the crimes for 
which he had suffered so much, was re-conveyed 
to his Candian prison, where, not long after, he 
was released from his sorrows by death. 

The troubles of the Doge Foscari were not yet 
over. The groundless hatred entertained against 
him by Loredano, led him, as one of the eovyassJl^ 



to propose that he should be deposed. But even 
the Ten, ill-disposed as they were towards Foscari, 
hesitated to adopt such a measure. " He has 
grown grey in the service of the State," observed 
one ; " to depose him would be a poor return for 
his many years of unceasing labour." 

" It would be but a useless form," said another; 
^' his age and shattered health will soon release 
him from the cares of office." 

" Not soon enough," replied Loredano ; " he is 
too infirm and feeble to be at the head of the Vene- 
tian State." 

" But, Signor Loredano," said an aged member, 
" it surely would be most inconsistent and contra- 
dictory to compel the Prince to abdicate, when we 
have twice refused to accept his voluntary resig- 

" Tell him we accept it now," replied Loredano; 
" let him give place to younger and more active 

" He has ruled well and wisely," observed the 
youngest of the members, touched with some pity 
for the doge ; ** his reign has been a brilliant one 
for Venice. And he has sufiered — suffered much. 

t us not embitter yet mote the short time that 


remains to him. Loredano! he is a desolate and 
broken-hearted old man." 

" He shows it not," said Loredano ; — " he is 
hard and cold as marble itself. A prouder man 
never breathed." 

" He has a noble spirit," was the reply. 
" To depose him will be to sign his death- 

The debate lasted long. To assist them in their 
deliberations, the Ten called in the aid of five-and- 
twentj members of the Great Council, and for 
eight days and nearly as many nights they sat in 
solemn discussion. The result of their protracted 
meetings was, that the Doge Foscari should be 
reqibested to resign his high command. 

When the deputation, headed by the Chief of 
the Ten, waited on the aged Prince for this pur- 
pose, he heard them with surprise, but with dignity 
and composure. 

" Signors," said he, — and he spoke as a noble 
prince, — " yon ask of me an impossibility. When 
I twice before expressed my wish to abdicate, it 
was refused me, and not only refused, but you 
made me take an oath that I would never resign 
my office. I have sworn to die in the full exercise 


of my power as Doge of Venice. I caonot break 
my oath." 

" Is this your answer, Prince?" 

" It is. You speak of my length of days, 
Signors, — remember, each day has been given to 
my country; I am ready to lay down my life for 
her, as I have laid down things far dearer than life. 
But my office as doge I hold of the whole Republic ; 
if you see fit, you can appeal to the Great Council, 
and take their opinion. I have no more to say." 

" And you will not resign. Prince?" 

" Never ! I do not make vows to break them. 
You have heard my answer." 

The deputation retired, disappointed. It was 
far firom their intention, however, to subject them- 
selves to the chances of debate in the Great Council; 
so, assuming a power they did not really possess, 
the Ten discharged Foscari from his oath, declared 
him to be no longer doge, assigned to him a pen- 
sion of two thousand ducats, and ordered him to 
quit the palace within three dayrf. The cruel 
Loredano enjoyed the barbarous satisfaction of 
presenting this decree with his own hand to the 
deposed Prince. Foscari received it with calmness^ 
If I Jbad imagined," said he, " that my old age 


was in any way hurtful to the State, never for one 
moment would I have placed my high dignity 
before my country's welfare; but my lifl not 
having been altogether useless to Venice, I would 
fain have consecrated to her the last moments of 
it. The act is passed — ^I obey it." 

" Ho was deposed, — 
He who had reign*d so long and gloriously : 
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow, 
His robes stript off, his seal and signet-ring 
Broken before him. But now nothing moved 
The meekness of his soul." 

The following day Francesco Foscari left the 
palace where, for so many years, he had lived and 
reigned a prince. As he was about to depart, it 
was suggested to him that he should retire by the 
staircase which led to the grand canal, and thus 
avoid the concourse of people assembled in the great 

" No," said Foscari, proudly; " I descend by no 

ther than the Giant's Stairs,— the selfsame steps 

Y which I mounted, five-and-thirty years ago, to 

^ elected Doge. I was publicly elected, and I 

U be publicly deposed." 

Accordingly, leaning on the arm of his brother 




and supported hj his staff, the aged noble sloiwly 
descended the Giant's Stairs. Once— only once — 
his arm trembled, and his voice faltered, as he 
murmured, " My boy ! my Jacopo ! thou hast 
been spared this!" Arrived at the foot of the 
staircase, he turned round, and giving a last look 
to the palace, exclaimed, " My services established 
me within your walls; it is the malice of my 
enemies which tears me from them. Farewell ! " 

The people of Venice much grieved when they 
heard of the deposition of the beloved and respected 
Doge, but they dared not express their grief. 
Whatever pity they might secretly cheush for 
their wronged and humiliated prince, all show of 
it was silenced by a peremptory decree of the 
Council of Ten, forbidding any mention of his name, 
and annexing death as a penalty to disobedience. 

On the fifth day after Foscari's deposition, Mali- 
pieri was elected Doge of Venice. The dethroned 
prince, now in his own palace, heard the great bell 
of St. Mark's strike out, announcing his successor. 
He was visibly agitated. " That soimd ! " he ex- 
claimed, " I know it well — I heard it once before; 
it tolls for my Jacopo — my lost, my innocent 
Jacopo! My poor, poor boy!" Hip agitation 


increased; he vainly endeavoured to suppress it, 
and bursting a blood-vessel, in a few hours Fran- 
cesco Foscari expired. 

Beautiful Venice ! thy name is, indeed, renowned 
in story, "thou dream-like city of the hundred 
isles !" With wonder and admiration we think of 
thy power and splendour and magnificence, — of 
thy marble palaces and princely halls ; thy proud 
towers and fairy-like beauty. We think of thy 
merry masques and moonlight serenades — of thy 
graceful gondolas and orange-bowers — of thy per- 
fumed breezes — of "the cloudless beauty of thy 
deep blue skies." But we know that even in thy 
best days thou wert ever an unquiet and unsafe 
abode ; and, turning from all thy gorgeous splen- 
dour, we look with renewed satisfaction and grate- 
ful hearts on the freedom, and security, and 
domestic peace which shed so bright a glory on 
our own beloved and highly-fevoured land. 

No. VI. 


In one of the large and dimly lighted apart- 
ments of the university of Padua, there sat, one 
summer's evening, in the year 1597, a young man 
in the prime of life, intently engaged in reading. 
Time passed on, and still he sat there, undisturbed, 
and forgetful of tlie world without.' At length, 
laying down the book he had been perusing, he 
leaned his head on his hand for some minutes, 
apparently lost in thought. His fine open brow 
and intelligent eye were clear indications of a mind 
of no common order ; and few could look at him 
without being 'convinced that he was not hiding 
in a napkin, or burying in slotkfiBdness, the talents 


with which God had endowed him. No ; he was 
a diligent searcher after truth and knowledge ; and 
destined to be nobly rewarded ! In a few minuteSy 
turning to a desk which stood near him, the stu- 
dent exclaimed, while a smile of joy passed over 
his countenance, " Yes ; I will write to him \ 
He is a man after my own heart; a bold and 
daring genius ! " He took up the pen and wrote 
a letter, from which the following is an extract. 
It was addressed to the celebrated German astro- 
nomer, Kepler, and proved to be the commence- 
ment of a friendship between two of the greatest 
men of the 16th century : — 

*^ I have as yet read nothing beyond the preface 
of your book, from which, however, I catch a 
glimpse of your meaning, and feel great joy on 
meeting with so powerful an associate in the pur- 
suit of truth, and consequently such a friend to 
truth itself : for it is deplorable there should be 
so few who care about it. I promise to peruse 
your book dispassionately, and with a conviction 
that I shall find in it much to admire. This I 
shall do the more willingly because many yeais 
ago I became a convert to the opinions of Copemi- 


CHS,* and by that theory have succeeded in ex- 
plaining many phenomena which otherwise are 
inexplicable. I have arranged many arguments 
and confutations of the opposite opinions, which, 
however, I have not yet dared to publish, fearing 
the fate of our master Copernicus, who, although 
he has gained immortal fame amongst a few, yet 
by an infinite number is exploded and derided. 
Were there many such as you, I would venture 
to publish my speculations, but since that is not 
so, I shall take time to consider of it." 

Having concluded and sealed the letter, he rose 
and walked out in the green meadows adjoining 
the university. 

" Who is this coming with a book in his hand?" 
asked the young Beatrice Novelli of her father, as 
they stood together admiring the gorgeous splen- 
dour of an Italian sunset ; " I should take him 
for a philosopher, were it not that he smiles 

" He is professor of mathematics in our univer- 


* Copernicus was a celebrated Prussian astronomer, who 
•itablished the true system of the universe in opposition to that 


sity," replied her father ; " and a very clever man. 
I am slightly acquainted with him. — Good even- 
ing, Signor, I see you do not leave your studies 
behind you, even when you come out to enjoy 
such an evening as this. You prefer the writings 
of man to the open book of nature," 

" Nay," said the professor, with a smile, "judge 
me not so harshly, Signor Novelli ; few can admire 
the glorious works of nature more than I do. On 
such an evening as this, with my favourite com- 
panion to enhance my enjoyment, I am almost in 
danger of forgetting there is such a place as the 
university of Padua." 

" Ah ! the Orlando Furioso ; you are an admirer 
then of the poet Ariosto ?" 

" I prefer him to aU poets, ancient, or modem ; 
in proof of which I have this enchanting poem 
nearly by heart." 

" Pardon me for differing from you, Signor," 
said Novelli, " but in my opinion he is not to be 
compared to Tasso. What can be finer than his 
poem of * Jerusalem Delivered?' Wliat can speak 
more in his praise than the unbounded celebrity 
he enjoyed, and his being crowned in the Capitol 
at Rome as ' the prince of poets ? ' " 



^' Poor Torquato Tasso ! " replied the professor, 
" he was highly sensitive and of a most fervid 
imagination, but I fear his mind was at times a 
little disordered." 

" The cruel treatment he received was enough 
to make it so," replied Novelli. " Could anything 
have been more painful to a man of his tempera- 
ment than to be shut up in a dark and solitary 
prison? How often must his thoughts have re- 
verted to the bright sky and the blue sea of his 
native Sorrento ! how must he have pined in his 
lonesome dungeon for the vineyards and orange 
groves, the sunny slopes and dells of that lovely 
spot! and above all, with what a longing heart 
must he have desired once more to behold his 
affectionate and gentle sister ! Poor Torquato 
Tasso ! " 

" Who imprisoned him, papa?" asked Beatrice. 

" The Duke Alphonso d'Este, my love. Tasso 
presumed to admire at a distance the duke's fair 
sister, the Princess Eleanora, and for this crime he 
was nine years confined in Ferrara." 

** The duke, I believe, thought him insane," 
observed the professor. " If you remember, when 

ijring once at the castle, Tasso threw a knife at 


one of the servants, on account of some trifling 
negligence, which act of violence greatly alarmed 
bis noble hosts, and he was confined as one that 
had lost his reason." 

" Ah ! they merely wanted a pretext for his im- 
prisonment," said Novelli ; " I am aware he was 
excitable. But he rests in his grave ; his earthly 
sorrows are all over." 

" Did he die in prison, papa?" 

" No ; he was released from his prison, and died 
two years since at a monastery near Rome." 

" And which of our poets does your little girl 
admire?" said the professor, turning to Beatrice; 
" is it the sweet and melancholy Petrarch, or the 
immortal Dante ? " 

" I do not even know who Petrarch and Dante 
were," said Beatrice, laughing, yet half blushing 
at her ignorance. 

" Is it possible!" exclaimed her father ; " my 
dear child, you must begin to study more closely. 
My little girl, Signor, is too fond of play, I fear, 
and cares nothing for poetry." 

" Time enough," said the professor ; " let her 
enjoy her happy childhood while she can. But 
you ought to know somethijig of our great poet 


Dante, Beatrice, for the lady to whom he addressed 
mogt of his sonnets bore your name." 

" If you will kindly tell me of him, Signor, I 
will try not to forget him," said Beatrice modestly. 

" I^nte was a Florentine, my little girl, and 
lived about three hundred years ago. Exiled from 
Florence, he for some time took up his abode in 

" And Petrarch, Signor?" 

" Petrarch flourished about two hundred years 
since. He also lived in our city, and afterwards re- 
tired to a villa at Arqua, a sweet spot amongst the 
Euganean hills. You must ask your father to take 
you to see it, it is only a pleasant drive from the 

" Yes ; that I will," said Beatrice, " I shall 
remember about him better if I see his house." 

" Then you must remember about Ariosto, Tasso, 
and Dante, as well as Petrarch, for all once lived 
and studied in Padua, and you may see their 
dwellings any day. An illustrious band, Beatrice ! 
whose names and works will never perish from 
Italy, as long as Italy is a land of poetry !" 

" I am afraid I shall never like study," said 
Beatrice, with a sigh. 


Now Beatrice was the sunniest little. Italian girl . 

that ever bounded with lightsome step over the ^ 

flowery meadows of her native land. She wouljl 

cha«e the butterflies in, the early morning, and 

explore the valley in search of wild flowers, and 

listen to the song of the uprising lark, till her 

child's heart was filled with joy and gladness. 

Happy little Beatrice ! 

' " In a clime 
Where all were gajr> none were so ggy as thou." 

To hear her sigh was therefore a thing of rare 

" But," said the professor, smiling, " though 
you do not like study you like a story, I have no 
doubt, Beatrice. Come, while we sit down on this 
mossy bank I will tell you an anecdote of my 
favourite Ariosto." 

" The poet who wrote that book ? oh ! thitnk 
you, Signor; I Uke a story." 

" I fear you are troublesome to the professor, 
Beatrice," said her father. " Pardon her, Signor, she 
is an only child, and I am afraid rather spoiled." 

" I was ever fond of children," said the good- 
natured professor, "and shall be glad to interest 
my little friend. Perhaps from a story she ma.x^ 



learn to like history, and from history may go on 
to philosophy. What say you, Beatrice, do you 
think you shall ever be a philosopher?" 

Beatrice laughed merrily at this question, and 
no one, as he looked at the professor, could have 
imagined he was the same grave student, who, a 
few hours before, was seated in such deep thought 
amongst his books in the university. 

" The poet Ariosto was like you," he continued, 
" partial to flowers, and fond of gardening ; so fond, 
that he used to take up the seeds he had sown, in 
his impatience to see how they were getting on ! 
One morning, after having been busy with his 
flowers, in a fit of abstraction he wandered firom 
home attired in his dressing gown and slippers. 
When at a considerable distance from any habita- 
tion, he suddenly found himself made prisoner by 
a troop of banditti, who were proceeding to use 
violence towards him, when one of the lawless 
band, drawing his chief aside, whispered in his 
ear, ' It is the poet Ariosto !' The captain of the 
brigands immediately approaching Ariosto, saluted 
him in the most respectful terms, apologized for 
not knowing him, and concluded by saying, * Be 
assured, Signor, the renowned author of the Orlando 


Furioso has notliing to fear from us ; we beg as 
a favour, that we may be permitted to escort you 
in safety to your home.' They did so ; and the 
brigand chief expatiated all the way to the castle 
on various fine passages in the poem, with which 
many of the men appeared to be intimately ac- 
quainted, and with their leader joined in loading 
the author with praise. Another time, having occa- 
sion to pass through a wood with a few attendants, 
they encountered a band of armed brigands, who, 
to their surprise, suffered them to proceed without 
molestation. The captain, however, asked one of 
the servants the name of his master, which he had 
no sooner heard, than he set spurs to his horse, 
and galloped after Ariosto, who stopped in some 
alarm. Approaching him with every demonstra- 
tion of profound respect, the brigand chief offered 
his humble apologies, for having, through igno- 
rance of his name, suffered him to pass his troop 
without paying him the homage so justly due to 
his merit." 

" Then his being such a famous poet saved his 
life, very probably," said Beatrice, " His poetry 
was worth something to him then. Was Ariosto 
an amiable man, Signer?" 


" He was most amiable. When in his twenty- 
first year, he had the misfortune to lose his father, 
and found a large family left on his hands in nar- 
row circumstances. He was at first quite dismayed 
at such a charge, but setting manftdly to work for 
them, his efforts were rewarded with success. An 
affectionate son to his widowed mother, this young 
man supplied the place of an anxious and care- 
fiil father to brothers and sisters who almost idol- 
ized him." 

" That was very kind and good," said Beatrice ; 
" it seems to me a poet is not the man to have 
anxious cares about providing for a femily." 

" Very true, Beatrice, they are not in general 
fitted for it. But though of a mild temper, Ariosto 
could be roused into warmth. There is a laugh- 
able anecdote told of his passing one day by a 
potter's shop, and hearing the owner recite some of 
his verses in a style of which he did not at all 
approve. Enraged, he burst into the shop, and 
broke vase after vase in his fury. When the pot- 
ter expostulated, Ariosto replied with much com- 
placency, ' Destroying your worthless vessels is 
far too mild a punishment for the shameful way 
in which you destroyed my beautiM verses ! ' " 


" I hope, however, he paid the poor man for the 
injury he had done him?" said Beatrice. 

" He most probably did, for he was a man oi 
a generous disposition, who would not willingly do 
an act of injustice. But I must wish you good 
night, Beatrice, my hour of relaxation has ex- 

" Are you then going to study, Signor?" asked 
Beatrice, fixing her large eyes with a kind of awe 
on one who spent so much time amongst his books. 

" I am going into my observatory," replied the 
professor, smiling at the expression of her coun- 
tenance; "Look up there, little girl, at those 
myriads of glittering stars studding the blue e?:- 
panse! I am going to try and learn something 
about them." 

" But they are millions and millions of miles 
away, Signor!" 

" True; but they are not quite beyond our 
reach, Beatrice. The immortal mind can soar as 
high as the stars. Good night! adieu, Novelli." 

Beatrice thought for a few minutes of what the 
professor had said, and then turning to her father 
asked, " Is he an astronomer as well as a mathe- 
matician ?" 


" He is, Beatrice, and spends many hours in his 
observatory whilst you are asleep." 

" Then it was very kind of hun to spare time to 
talk with me, papa." 

" He is a very amiable man; and, like the 
poet Ariosto, took charge of his brothers and 
sisters on the death of his father, assisting them to 
the utmost of his power." 

" Do you think he will find out anything con- 
cerning the beautiful stars, papa ?" 

" Very likely he may, my child ; he is ex- 
tremely clever, and most industrious and perse- 
vering. From observing the vibrations of a lamp 
swinging from the roof of the cathedral whilst he 
was studying at Pisa, was suggested to him the 
laws which regulate the movement of a pendulum; 
and to him we also owe the re-invention of the 
thermometer. He has tried many experiments to 
ascertain the laws of motion; amongst others, 
from the leaning tower of Pisa, in the presence 
of the university and a crowd of people, he dropped! 
at the same moment two bodies of very different 
weights to disprove the notion that heavy things 
fall to the ground more quickly than light ones," 

" Why so they do, surely, papa?" 


" So we thought, and so the Pisans persisted in 
thinking and maintaining, with the sound of the 
simultaneously falling weights still ringing in 
their ears. The professor has proved, however, 
that with the exception of an inconsiderable differ- 
ence, which he attributes to the resistance of the 
air, a weight of one pound will reach the ground 
in the same time as a weight of ten pounds of the 
same material." 

" How clever he must be ! I thought he looked 
like a philosopher. What is his name, papa ?" 

" Galileo Galilei. You well may call him clever, 
Beatrice; he is not only a philosopher, an astro- 
nomer, and a mathematician, but a skilful me- 
chanic also. He draws beautifully, is passionately 
fond of painting, and is an excellent performer on 
several instruments of music." 

" And yet with all this knowledge, he was so 
goodnatured as to sit down and tell me a story ! 
I like Signor Galileo." 

" There is one thing I do not understand in 
him, however," said Novelli. " He told me the 
other day, in confidence, that it was his private 
opinion the sim did not go round the earth." * 

" Not go round the earth 1" es^claimed Beatrice 



in surprise, " why where does he think it goes to, 
papa ?" 

" He is inclined to believe that the earth goes 
round the sun." 

" Oh ! that would be impossible!" said the little 
girl, in still greater astonishment than before; " can 
the Signor really suppose the earth moves? What a 
strange idea! how frightened I should be if I 
thought it was true ! Why, papa, he saw the sun 
go down to-night, and he knows it will rise again 
to-morrow on the other side of the world. Oh! 
Signor Galileo is not so clever as I thought he 

" Philosophers take strange notions into their 
heads sometimes, my child ; but the professor is a 
clever man for all that. Come, we will return home." 

In those days people supposed the earth to be 
immoveably fixed in the centre of the universe, 
with the sun, moon, and planets revolving round 
it once in every twenty-four hours. Copernicus 
showed that this theory was a false one ; it re- 
mained for Galileo to prove it. The difficulties he 
had to encounter in doing so were continual and 
almost overwhelming, yet every step of his course 
was a triumph. The penetrating acuteness of his 


invention, and the unswerving accuracy of liis 
judgment, must cause our wonder and admiration ; 
while the persevering energy and patience with 
which he combated the host of obstacles in his 
path, must win our esteem and respect. 

He was bom on the very day and hour that 
Michael Angelo died, and, like that great man, 
persevered till he triumphed! 

The fame of Galileo increased. Twice was he 
re-elected to the professorship, his salary being 
raised each time. Persons of the highest rank 
attended his lectures, and. such was the number of 
his auditors, that on many occasions he was com- 
pelled to adjourn to the open air, the lecture-room 
not being large enough to contain the crowds of 

Suddenly a new star appeared in the heavens ; 

and the Paduans, both learned and unlearned, 

locked in numbers to the astronomer's lecture- 

oom, to hear from him some explanation of the 

rodigy. The first thing he did was to reproach 

is auditors with their general insensibility to the 

agnificent wonders of creation, daily and hourly 

'.posed to their view, in no respect less admirable 

an the new star about which they were «v 



interested. He then showed that this splendid 
phenomenon could not be, as some supposed, a 
mere meteor, but that it must be situated amongst 
the remote heavenly bodies. This was quite in- 
conceivable to those whose notions of an unchanged 
able sky were quite at variance with the intro- 
duction of any such new body; and we may 
consider this lecture as the first public declaration 
of Galileo's hostility to the old and erroneous 

In the tmie of which I am speaking, people 
knew very little about the heavenly bodies, those 
magnificent and glorious creations, the cohtempla^ 
tion of which must fill every thinking mind with 
the most profound admiration and wonder. No 
telescope had ever then been turned towards the 
heavens; and it required a courageous mind to 
contradict, and a strong one to bear down, a party 
so prejudiced against all new discoveries, that they 
refiised to credit even their own senses. But the 
illustrious Galileo persevered in his laborious and 
indefatigable observations, and, undismayed by the 
persecutions to which he was subjected, continued 
t0 aimonnce his new diaeoveries At length to 


his great joy he discovered the telescope, and was 
enabled to construct one. How often had he 
gazed at the luminous orbs above him, and longed 
to find out more concerning them, and the laws by 
which they are guided ! 

And now he could do so. Oh ! who can imagine 
the thriUing joy the astronomer felt, when he first 
directed his telescope to the starry firmament, and 
by its aid discovered worlds till then unseen! 
then, overwhelmed with the grandeur and magni- 
ficence of the system he explored, he must have 
acknowledged with the Psalmist how truly " The 
heavens declare the glory of God!" — ^then, as he 
turned his glass night after night, and fresh dis- 
coveries and new glories gradually burst upon his 
gaze, revealing laws and systems before unknown, 
he must have exclaimed with adoring reverence, 
" Great and marvellous are Thy works. Lord God 
Ahnighty !" 

But the people of Padua did not all approve of 
Galileo's discovery, and some of them even said it 
was a wicked invention. The principal professor 
in the university actually refused to look through 
the telescope! They argued that the planetary 
bodies which the astronomer saw through it could 



not exist ; they called him an impostor and a heretic, 
and heaped abuse and scorn upon him. He seldom 
condescended to notice their invectives, otherwise 
tlian by good-humoured retorts, and by prosecuting 
his observations with renewed assiduity and zeal. 

Galileo's first telescope was no sooner completed 
than he took it with him to Venice, where for a 
whole month his time was employed in exhibiting 
his instrument to the principal inhabitants, who 
thronged the house to take a peep through it, which 
seemed almost to them like taking a visit to another 
world. At the end of that time the Doge caused it 
to be intimated that such a present would not be 
deemed unacceptable by the senate. Galileo took 
the hint, and was rewarded for his complaisance by 
a nomination for life to his professorship at Padua, 
his salary being doubled. 

About the same time this indefatigable philo- 
sopher discovered the microscope. 

" My dear Beatrice," said Novelli one day, en- 
tering his daughter's apartment, " I have to tell 
you of a most wonderful discovery made by Signer 
Galileo. You know the first use to which he 
turned his double eye-glass was to examine the 
irregTilarities on the surface of the moon, which he 


conceives to be mountains. He then directed his 
attention to Jupiter, and after vjxnch. fatigue and 
many a^ midnight watch, to his great joy he has 
discovered four moons, or satellites, revolving round 
that beautiftd planet ! " 

" Oh, papa, is it possible ! " exclaimed Beatrice. 

" You may well be astonished, my child. I 
cannot describe to you the extraordinary sensation 
this discovery has produced. Many doubt, and 
many positively refuse to believe it, whilst all are 
struck with the utmost wonder, either at the new 
and sublime view of the universe thus opened to 
them, or at the daring audacity of Galileo in in- 
venting such fables." 

*' Fables ! oh, papa ! he is truth itself! how I wish 
I could have a peep through his double eye-glass." 

" He invites you, Beatrice, to do so. He would 
have you see and admire the wonders of creation, 
and acknowledge, at the same time, the happy re- 
suits of persevering study." 

" How goodnatured of him ! and how wonderful 
it seems that he can discover by his instrument 
what goes on amongst those glittering stars ! It is 
a beautiful evening ; let us go to the observatory 
at once, dear papa.'' 


They went; and after a long gaze throngli the 
wonderftd " double eye-glass," during which she 
received many explanations from the kind pro- 
fessor of what she beheld, the astonished and grati- 
fied Beatrice returned home, humbled at thinking 
how little she knew of the glorious works of creation, 
and inwardly resolving that from henceforth she 
would apply more diligently to the study of them. 

On the discovery of Jupiter's satellites the 
astronomer, Kepler, wrote thus to his friend : — 

'' I was sitting idle at home, thinking of you, 
most excellent Galileo, and your letters, when 
Wachenfels stopped his carriage at my door to tell 
me the news, that by the help of your double eye- 
glass you had discovered four new planets; and 
such was my wonder when I heard it, such my 
agitation at seeing an old dispute between us 
decided in this way, that what with his joy, my 
surprise, and the laughter of both, we were for 
some time unable, he to speak, or I to listen." 

But while Kepler rejoiced, others were very 
angry. Some argued that the discovery was con- 
trary to Scripture, as it would make the planetaiy 
^^. lN)dies more than seven in number, and seven was 


the emblem of perfection. Others aaid that as there 
were seven windows given to animals in the domi- 
cile of the head, namely, two eyes, two ears, two 
nostrils, and one mouth, to enlighten, to warm, 
and to nourish the body, so there could be but 
seven planets in the heavens ; others said that the 
telescope, though true for the earth, represented 
celestial objects falsely; while some contented them- 
selves simply with the assertion that the planets 
were not there ; and could not be. 

" Oh, my dear Kepler," wrote Galileo, " how I 
wish we could have one hearty laugh together. 
Here is the principal professor of philosophy in 
Padua, whom I have repeatedly and urgently re- 
quested to look at the moon and planets through 
my glass, and yet he pertinaciously refuses to do 
so ! Why are you not here? what shouts of laughter 
we should have at this glorious folly 1 and then to 
hear the professor of philosophy at Pisa, labouring 
before the Grand Duke with logical arguments, aa 
if with magical incantations, to charm the new 
planets out of the sky ! " 

The intense interest which the discovery of 
Jupiter's satellites inspired, created for Galileo 



friends as well as enemies. The Grand Duke 
Tuscany, after several times examining the nc 
planets through his telescope, begged the instr 
ment of him, that he might lay it up in the museu 
at Florence, amongst other rare and precio 
curiosities. Galileo presented it to him, and i 
ceived from the Grand Duke in' return a prese 
worth more than a thousand florins, and an eamc 
entreaty that he would attach himself to 1 
service and reside in Florence, with the title 
Philosopher and principal Mathematician to 1: 
Highness. As he found he sh6uld have no duti 
to perform, and consequently leisure to comple 
the treatises he was writing, Galileo accepted tl 

You may believe that Novelli and his daught 
Beatrice were very sorry when the talented ai 
amiable professor left Padua. They had had mai 
interesting and instructive conversations togethc 
and the mind of Beatrice had gradually opened 
the delight of acquiring knowledge. It was one 
her greatest treats to sit by her father's side in tl 
shady alcove, and listen to his discourse with tl 
astronomer. Sometimes they would converse < 
one Bubjectf sometim&a on auother^ but all w 


improving ; and Beatrice ever learned something in 
those pleasant evenings to raise her thoughts and 
do her good. 

One day her father having spoken of the instru- 
ments which the philosopher had invented, GaUleo 
observed, " Soon after I had first used them, I was 
struck with the thought that while the telescope 
speaks to us of the unnumbered worlds which 
engage the attention of the Almighty, and causes 
us to feel our own nothingness, while we contem- 
plate His majesty, and power, and wisdom, the 
microscope, by reVfealing the myriads of tiny in- 
sects formed with such wonderful skill and rejoicing 
in His providential goodness and watchftd care, 
tells us of His love and tender mercy. The glorious 
orbs above, and the smallest insects at our feet, 
are alike dependent on Him." 

" Most true," replied Novelli ; " our minds may 
well be filled with awe and reverence when gazing 
on the starry firmament. You have made great 
discoveries, excellent Galileo, but perchance there 
is still much to learn concerning that spangled 

" Most undoubtedly there is, my friend. We 
are yet very ignorant of the heavenly mechanism. 


How great and oommoii an enor is the mistake of 
those who persist in making thdr knowledge and 
apprehension the measme of the apprehension and 
luiowledge of God ; as if that alone were perfect, 
which they understand to be so ! If one of our 
most celebrated architects had had to distribute 
this vast multitude of fixed stars through Ihe great 
vault of heaven, I believe he would have disposed 
them with beautiful arrangemente of squares, hex- 
agons, and octagons; he would have dispersed 
the larger ones among the middle-sized and the 
less, so as to correspond exacAj with each other; 
and then he would think he had contrived admi- 
rable proportions ; but God, on the contrary, has 
shaken them out from His hand as if by chance; 
and we, forsooth, must think that He has scattered 
them up yonder without any regularity, symmetry, 
or elegance!" 

There was a pause of some minutes, during which 
all gazed intently at the deep blue vault above 
them, glittering with a thousand stars, and then 
Novelli exclaimed, " Oh, Signer Galileo ! how fiir 
more honourable and praiseworthy it is, witii 
watching, and toil, and study, to discover some- 
thing admirable and new in the vast book which 


nature holds ever open before those who have eyes 
to see, than to pass a listless and lazy existence, 
contented with the knowledge we possess, and 
leaving the world neither wiser nor better than 
we found it! Tell me, Signor, — that beautiful 
moon, which looks to us so smooth and polished, 
they say you have discovered irregularities on its 
surface, which you conceive to be mountains; is 
it so?" 

" I do imagine it. By the aid of my glass, I 
can distinctly trace the outlines of mountains and 
other inequalities in the moon; though my oppo- 
nents say I am utterly mistaken, and that I take 
delight in distorting and ruining the fairest works 
of nature. One, however, constrained to allow the^ 
evidence of these inequalities, asserts that every 
part of the moon which to us appears hollow is, in 
fact, entirely filled up with a clear crystal substance, 
imperceptible to the senses, but whicK preserves to 
the planet her smooth, unalterable surface. I told 
him," continued the astronomer, smiling, " that this 
was an admirable idea, provided only it could be 
proved ; but I was ready to agree to it, on condi- 
tion I might be allowed to raise upon his smooth 
surface crystal mountains, which nobody can per- 


ceive, ten times higher than those which I have 
actually seen and measnred. Since that, I have 
heard no more of the crystalline theory," 

" And do you indeed believe, Signor Gralileo, 
that the world on which we live revolves round the 
sun?" asked Beatrice. "The Scriptures do not 
tell us so." 

" I am inclined to believe, Beatrice," replied 
Galileo, " that the intention of the sacred Scrip- 
tures is to give to mankind the information neces- 
sary for their salvation, and which, surpassing all 
human knowledge, can by no other means be 
accredited than by the mouth of the Holy Spirit. 
But I do not hold it necessary to believe, that the 
same God who has endowed us with senses, with 
speech and intellect, intended that we should 
ne-glect the use of these. The object of the Scrip- 
tures is not to teach us astronomy; — expressions 
are used in the sacred writings as are intelligible 
to the vulgar belief concerning the structure of the 
universe ; but so little notice is taken of this science, 
that none of the planets, except the moon and 
Venus, (under the name of Lucifer,) are so much 
as named there. In my own mind, I am convinced, 
from long and catefal observation, that the earth 


and other planets revolve round the sun as their 

This opinion of Galileo's brought him many ene- 
mies. The pope and cardinals did not at all approve 
of the Copemican system ; indeed, they had burned 
one of its advocates, Bruno, at Rome, in the year 
1600. They now threatened Galileo with impri- 
sonment if he persisted in spreading his notions. 
But one of the most striking features in the cha- 
racter of this great man, was his invincible love of 
tfnth, and abhorrence of that spiritual despotism 
which had so long brooded over Europe. The 
uncompromising boldness with which he published 
and supported his opinions, regarding little the 
power and authority of those who advocated the 
contrary doctrines, raised against him a host of 
foes, who united to crush, if possible, so dangerous 
an innovator. The Jesuits, in particular, were 
alarmed; they fancied they saw in the spirit of 
Galileo's writings the same inquisitive temper 
which they had already found so inconvenient in 
Martin Luther and his adherents. Their conster- 
nation increased every day; for the astronomer 
drew around him a numerous band of followers, 
all imbued with the same spirit of inquiry; and his 


favourite scholars were successful candidates for 
professorships in many of the most celebrated uni- 
versities of Italy. 

Meantime, his discoveries increased. One day 
he announced the detection of innumerable stars, 
invisible to the unassisted sight, in that remarkable 
cloudy appearance in the heavens, known to us 
familiarly by the name of "the milky way;" — 
another, he delighted all his friends, and raised ihe 
anger of his foes, by communicating the discovery 
he had made of the phases of Mercury and Venus. 
At one time would be circulated the astonishing 
intelligence that " Signor Galileo had discovered 
two strange appendages to Saturn," (which, in after 
years, and by the aid of more powerful telescopes, 
were found to be his rings;) — at another, that he had 
observed dark spots on the body of the sun. His 
opponents were indignant ; they had scarcely time 
to compound anything like an argument against 
him and his theories, before they found him in 
possession of some new fact which they were quite 
unprepared to meet. All they could do waa to 
heap upon him abuse and contempt. 

I cannot now tell you of all the discoveries in 
astronomy and philosophy made by this inde&- 


tigable and perseyering man, or of the many books 
he wrote concerning them; you may read about 
them when you are older; but I must speak of 
one of these publications, which caused a great 

Galileo had received formal notice from the 
Vatican that he was not to teach the Copemican 
system of astronomy, or in any way to venture to 
assert that the earth moved round the sun. But 
the truth-loving philosopher, convinced that his 
opinions were correct, could not remain silent on 
80 important a point. Fearing the anger of the 
pope, if he too boldly expressed his own sentiments 
after the prohibition he had received, he wrote a 
book under the title of " Dialogues on the Ptole- 
maic and Copemican systems,-' in which, without 
naking his own views very prominent, he leaves 
ds readers to form their own conclusions from the 
vely remarks of two speakers maintaining the 
Dposite opinions, and a clever friend who draws 
it the observations on both sides. It was evident, 
»wever, which speaker had the best of the argu- 
»,nt; and the book was condemned by the In* 

Vnd now Galileo, an aged man of seventy years, 





to ^ «^*^'^lt to see tlv«^«^;^^i^l, standu^ 
^ affecting «gb* ^. ^epeutatit ff'^^.ainaU •»* 

Wote the f^^ued to te^J^f ^e ov^^ 
^.elates, and com^e ^^^ ^^^ 

^aaceB of the S^^^^^ enlightened i^^eUcd 

t^u9 i^'^^SV^eie hy ig^^'^^'tnhe cruelty «v4 
aownas ^^^.etstrildngptoof °y ea t^hTm.^. 
afforded ano^2 .^^^etant »J.*.^ aad Hb ^^' 
bigotry of t^*^ ' ce upon G»W^ ^f the sun 

caused him to fenee i_fijnxiti« 

oath to that effect .^^ ^S^^^to^ho. 

Broken do^««^ ^..eiless tribunal to 
and overawed hy 


power he was subjected, and of whose cruel tor- 
tures for the refractory he was well aware, it was 
not without extreiiie reluctance and pain that the 
truthftd Galileo was compelled thus formally to 
declare his whole life to have been a continued 
falsehood, and assert his renunciation of those 
opinions to which he still clung more fondly than 
ever. But the terrors of the Inquisition could 
appal the stoutest heart. He knelt, and in the 
presence of all assembled, declared solemijy " that 
his past views had been erroneous, absurd, and 
heretical, that the sun was not the centre of the 
system, and that the earth did not move round it ; 
and that he abjured and detested his former errors 
and heresy." 

As he rose from his knees, after making this 
declaration, he whispered to one of his friends who 
stood near, " It moves, for all that." 

The aged astronomer had, previously to his 
examination, been kept in strict seclusion in Rome, 
for more than four months ; he was now sent to 
the dungeons of the Inquisition, with orders to 
perform certain penances at stated intervals. His 
numerous friends, who felt the deepest sympathy 
with him, had been most earnest in recommending 


him to acquiesce in whatever the Inquisitors re- 
quired him to say; and thus his life was saved. 
They well knew that even if he adhered to the 
truth, a tribunal that carried on its inquiries in 
secret, could at any time put words into the mouths 
of its victims, and give them to the world as 
genuine. Copies of Galileo's sentence and ahfnr 
ration were immediately sent in every direction, 
and orders given that they should be read publicly 
in the universities. People were astonished and 
alarmed; they could not understand how Pope 
Urban YIII, who had been such a friend to the 
astronomer, should sanction these proceedings 
against him. His opinions, however, had widely 
spread — though every copy of his book had been 
burnt at Eome — and the celebrated Pascal wrote 
to the Jesuits, saying — "It is in vain that yon 
have procured against Galileo a decaree from Bome 
condemning his opinion of the »earth*B motion. 
Assuredly that will never prove it to be at rest; 
and if we have unerring observations proving that 
it does turn round, not all mankind together can 
keep it from turning, or themselves from taming 
with it." 
While the philosopher remained in his dungeon 



cell, an officer of the Inquisition entering one day- 
questioned him as to his belief in a Supreme 
Being, Galileo replied, pointing to a straw on 
the floor of his dungeon, " From the structure of 
that object alone can I infer with certainty the 
existence of an intelligent Creator." 

The remaining nine years of Galileo's life were 
years of pain and humiliation. He was ordered 
to reside in seclusion, as a prisoner, at his villa of 
Arcetri, near Florence, Here he gave himself up 
to his philosophical studies, but duffered from 
constant indisposition and pain. At i&rst his 
friends were aUowed to visit him, and he much 
prized this privilege, luid charmed every one by 
his varied powers of conversation; but latterly 
even this favour was denied him. Celebrated 
foreigners, who had heard in other landd of the 
fame of the Paduan astronomer, bent their steps to 
the villa at Arcetri. 

" Sacred bo 
His villa; justly was it called the Gem 1 
Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw 
Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars." 

But a still more terrible calamity than imprison- 
ment overshadowed the declining years of thia 


illustrious man. He became totally blind ! Few 
can bear immoved the loss of the invaluable bles- 
sing of sight; with what peculiar and terrible 
severity then must it have fallen on Galileo ! on 
him who had declared he would never cease to use 
the senses which God had given him, in showing 
forth the glory of His works, and the business of 
whose life had been the splendid fulfilment of that 
undertaking! He bore this calamity with won- 
. derful patience and resignation, expressing himself 
thus to one who loved him : — 

" Alas ! your dear friend and servant Gtilileo 
has become totally and irreparably blind ; so that 
this heaven, this earth, this imiverse, which with 
wonderful observations I had enlarged a hundred 
and a thousand times beyond the belief of by-gone 
ages, henceforth fbr me is shrunk into the narrow 
space which I myself fill in it. — So it pleases God; 
it shall therefore please me also." 

" The noblest eye is darkened," said one of his 
friends, " which nature ever made ; an eye so 
privileged, and gifted with such rare qualities, 
that it may with truth be said to have seen more 
than all of those who are gone, and to have 
opened the eyes of all who are to come," 


It was truly a heavy calamity for such a man ! 
The intelligent eye which night after night, in 
many a midnight watch, had scanned the starry 
firmament, was now for ever dim! No more could 
he explore the wonders of the heavens, or search 
out the laws which govern the planetary host ; no 
more could he admire the glorious works of nature, 
which had been to him such a constant source of 
delight ! The beautiful scenes around him, the blue 
sky, the flowers, the sparkling waterfalls, his very 
books, were closed to him for ever! The light 
was quenched. 

As long as power was left him, he had unceas- 
ingly pursued his astronomical observations. Just 
before his sight began to fail, he had observed a 
new phenomenon in the moon, now known by the 
name of the moon's libration, which closes the long 
list of his discoveries in the heavens. And now, 
an aged man, blind, afflicted, persecuted, and a 
prisoner, Galileo waited his dismissal. 

He was seated one evening under his favourite 
tree on the verdant lawn, when a stranger, a young 
man of pleasing appearance, desired to be intro- 
duced to him. Galileo received him courteously, 
placed him by his side, and entered into conversa- 


tion with him. Though he saw not the noble and 
intelligent countenance of the interesting stranger, 
jret the philosopher felt he was conversing with a 
man of genius and intellect, and delighted with his 
companion, he for a time forgot his sorrows. The 
young foreigner was equally charmed with his 
host, and much sweet and pleasant discourse they 
had together. On various subjects they conversed, 
and on all felt that they were kindred spirits. The 
stranger youth never forgot that evening; and 
when, returned to his English home, he, in after 
years, gave forth to the world that sublime and 
noble production, the Paradise Lost, it was found 
to contain many beautiful allusions to Galileo and 
his astronomy. 

Ah! little did John Milton think, when con- 
versing with the sightless Galileo, that he himself 
was about to suffer from the same terrible calamity! 

Such were the closing days in the life of this 
profound philosopher and. searcher after truth I 
Science justly regards him as one of her most 
valued sons ; and as century succeeds century, the 
importance of his discoveries becomes more and 
more apparent. 

In the church of Santa Croce at Florence lie the 


remains of Michael Angelo, and " The Starry 

" XIlastrioiiB sage ! thine eye is closed^ 
To which their secret paths new stars exposed. 
Haply thy spirit in some higher sphere, 
Soars with the motions which it measured here, 
Soft be thy slumbers, Seer, for thanks to thee, 
The earth now turns without a heresy. 
Dost thou, whose keen perception pierced the cause, 
Which giyes the pendulum its mystic laws. 
Now trace each orb with telescopic eyes. 
And solye the eternal clockwork of the skies ; 
While thy worn frame enjoys its long repose. 
And Santa Croce heals Arcetri's woes V* 

I cannot better close this story than in the words 
of our own great astronomer, Herschel, who speaks 
thus concerning Jupiter's satellites : — 

" The discovery of these bodies was one of the 
first brilliant results of the invention of the tele- 
scope; one of the first great facts which opened 
the eyes of mankind to the system of the universe, 
which taught them the comparative insignificance 
of their own planet, and the superior vastness and 
nicer mechanism of those other bodies, which had 
before been distinguished firom the stars only by 
their motion, and wherein none but the boldest 


thinkers had ventured to suspect a community of 
nature with our own globe. This discovery gave 
the holding turn to the opinions of mankind re- 
specting the Copemican system, the analogy pre- 
sented by these little bodies — little, however, only 
in comparison with the great central body about 
which they revolve — performing their beautifid 
revolutions in perfect harmony and order about it, 
being too strong to be resisted. This elegant sys- 
tem was watched with all the curiosity and interest 
the subject naturally inspired, 

" The eclipses of the satellites speedily attracted 
attention, and the more when it was discerned, as i 
speedily was, by Galileo himself, that they alforde 
a ready method of determining the difference < 
longitudes of distant places on the earth's surfac 
Thus the first astronomical solution of the grc 
problem of the longitude, the first mighty sf 
which pointed out a connexion between speculat 
astronomy and practical utility, and which, 
placing the dreams of astrology by nobler visi 
showed how the stars might really, and wit? 
fiction, be called arbiters of the destinies of em^ 
— we owe to the satellites of Jupiter, those a 
imperceptible to the naked eye, and floating 


motes in the beam of their primary — itself an atom 
to our sight, noticed only by the careless vulgar as 
a large star, and by the philosophers of former ages 
as something moving among the stars, they knew 
not what, or why." 

'' What though no real voice or sound. 
Amid these radiant orbs be found. 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
For ever singing, as they shine — 
The Hand that made us is Divine/* 

No. VII. 


It was on a lovely evening in the month of May, 
1646, that a fisherman's boat, with its white sail, 
was seen crossing the bay, which for beauty has 
perhaps not its equal in the world — ^the Bay of 
Naples. As the little bark, impelled by a fiivonr- 
ing breeze, flew rapidly onwards over the deep blue 
waters, the fisherman, a handsome, active young 
man of about twenty-four years of age, gazed with 
fond admiration on the beauteous scene before him; 
his eye resting with peculiar pleasure on that 
quarter of the city in which his own humble home 
was situated. 

•* Not a groye, 
Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot 
Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding Tine, 
But breftthes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings 


On the clear wave some image of delight, 
Some cabin roof glowing with crimson flowers^ 
Some rain'd temple or fallen monument, 
To muse on as the bark is gliding by." 

" See, Antonio ! see, my son ! " he cried to a 
curly-headed little fellow, his only companion in 
the boat, " look at our beautiM city ! is she not 
like a queen upon the waters ? and see the moun- 
tains glowing in the setting sun! are they not 
glorious? Beautiful Naples! there is not such 
another city in the world ! And yonder is our 
home, Antonio ! you will see if plainer ere long ; 
we shall very soon be there now." 

" But I cannot see mother," said Antonio ; " I 
should like to see her best. Where is she?" 

" Looking out for us, my boy, you may be sure, 
and preparing our supper, like a good wife as she 
is. She will be well pleased at our success to-day, 
Antonio ; these fine fish will fetch a good price in 
the market." 

" When shall I be old enough to sta^d in fhe 

market-place and sell the fish, dear ff^^her? I should 

like to do that," said the child, looking ucp entrea- 

tingly with his large dark eyes. 

- " Very soon, my little one," replied the fisher- 


man, fondly stroking the curly locks of his child, 
**very soon; you will be one of the best little 
merchants in Naples one day; and then, some time 
or other, you may perhaps have a boat of your 
own ; and go out with your nets, as I do." 

" Ah ! tlien I should be happy," said Antonio, 
clapping his tiny hands. " And then we should be 
go rich ; we could have as much macaroni as we 
liked to eat ! I hope I shall make haste and grow 
up, father." 

" That you may have plenty of macaroni, Tonio?' 
said his father, laughing, as he proceeded to trim 
the sail. " Ah, it is a happy life we fishermen lead, 
my child I especially when the fish come into our 
nets as they have to-day. With the blue skies 
above us, and the blue waters all around us, with a 
boat of one's own, and the work not too hard, what 
more can we wish for ? And then the return in 
the evening to a home like mine^ and a good wife 
like Teresa ! Why, I could not be a happier man 
were I king of Naples." 

" Who is the king of Naples?" asked Antonio, 
after a pause. 

" Naples, at present, is under the dominion of 
Philip IV. of Spain, and he governs here by a 


viceroy. Some are discontented at the state of 
things, but it little matters to me. See ! there is 
thy mother waving her handkerchief I now, my 
boy, we are at home." 

In a few minutes the boat touched the landing- 
place, and the fisherman springing out, was imme- 
diately surroimded by a crowd of his acquaintance, 
congratulating him on his well-filled nets. Laugh- 
ingly passing through the group, with a kind nod 
to one, a smile to another, and a merry jest to a 
third, the young man pressed on to where a pleas- 
ing-looking young woman was standing, whose 
tamest eyes and merry smile spoke a w^ome to 
the sailor. 

" Here is your little one, my Teresa," said he, 
as he placed the child in his mother's arms, and 
gave her at the same time an affectionate salute, 
" he is rather tired, I fancy; but has done very well 
for tlie first trip." 

" And you, dear Masaniello, you have had a 
good day, I see ? I suppose the little one helped 
to throw the nets," said the fisherman's wife, as she 
smilingly caressed the child in her arms. 

" Ohl he will be a fine fisherman one of? these 
days," replied Masaniello ; '^ we must soon teach 


him to take the fish to the market Thanks, 
Piedro ! thanks, good Ludovico ! '* he cried to two 
yomig men who were busy unlading the boat; 
'^ you mnst take some of these fine fish home with 
you for supper.** 

^' No, no, Masaniello ; who is so ready to do a 
kind turn as you are? You shall keep your fish, 
and get a good price for them to-morrow. We 
want you, when you have supped, to come down 
with us to the point ; we cannot get on at all with- 
out you.*' 

Masaniello was a general favourite. In active 
exercises he always took the lead with his young 
companions, while his frank good nature, his gaiety, 
his kindness of heart, won him the love of aU his 

The young fishermen laughed. " You are good 
friends, truly,*' said he, " to take me from home 
just when I have returned to it I Come, Teresa, 
let us go in to supper ; poor Antonio will make sad 
havoc with the macaroni." 

It was a happy, affectionate, and merry party 
that evenmg in the fisherman's hutr-the indus- 
trious and kind husband, the gentle and loving 
wife, and the. playfiil, happy child. Thankfrd for 


the present, they looked not with anxiety to the 
future. Alas ! their happiness was to be fearfully 
interrupted ! 

A year passed away ; and a crowd of lazzaroni 
Were assembled one evening on the beach, not far 
from Masaniello's hut. The lazzaroni are the idle 
beggars with which Naples abounds, who, as long 
as they can get sufficient food without the trouble 
of labour, are satisfied. On the present occasion 
they looked sullen and discontented. Their care- 
less apathy seemed to be roused ; and their usual 
quiet laziness had given way to loud murmuring 
words and threatening gestures. 

" It takes the food out of our very mouths ! " 
exclaimed one man, with vehemence ; " and we 
neither can or will submit to it ! What right has 
the king of Spain to lay such a tax on the 
Neapolitan people? A tax on all the fruit and 
vegetables brought to market! How are we to 
live now? It was hard work before, but i^w — ^we 
must starve." ^ .. ».' 

" Nay," cried another, " what is Philip of Spain 
to us ? why should we starve to please him ? The 
Spanish treasury has abeady been enriched by more 



than a hundred millions of ducats fix>m Naples; 
but the more they have, the more they want I** 

" Down with die tax ! " shouted the third ; " we 
will resist it, my friends; in spite of king or 

" We will ! we will 1 " cried the incensed mob ; 
^' not a carlin shall be paid; the Duke of Arcos 
may look elsewhere for his gold than amongst the 
J^^eapolitan peasants ! " 

A Spanish flotilla lay at anchor in the bay; tl^e 
most conspicuous vessel of which was the Admiral^s 
galley, remarkable for its strength and beauty. 

^' See there ! " said a young man in rags, as he 
pointed to the ship so peacefully floating on the 
calm waters ; " see there ! in yonder galley lie 
300,000 ducats, ready for transmission to Spain — 
ducats wrung from the Neapolitan peasants, to fill 
the coflers of King Philip ! " 

" They shall never reach him 1" muttered one of 
the crowd ; and soon deep and whispered threats 
passed from mouth to mouth. 

That night, when all was still, and the bright 
moon shedding its clear light on the lovely bay, 
the Spanish galley was discovered to be on fire. 
All efforts to save the gallant ship were in vain— 


she blew up with a tremendous explosion, and with 
all her treasure, sunk in the deep waters ! 

The Neapolitan mob, once roused, proceeded from 
one act of violence to another. The Duke of Arcos 
could not appear in the streets without being in- 
sulted ; seditious clamours were heard throughout 
the city; insurrectionary placards were posted in the 
market-place ; and the booth erected for the collec- 
tion of the tax was burned to the ground. These 
riotous proceedings had, however, no effect on the 
Duke of Arcos ; though informed by the nobles how 
heavily the tax pressed on the poor, he refused to 
repeal it. 

Masaniello, the fisherman, though equally with 
his countrymen he hated the obnoxious tax, yet had 
refirained from joining in any of their outbreaks of 
fury. Happy in his home and in his daily occu- 
pation, he went cheerftdly on his way, with a smile 
and a kind word for all. But one day, on returning 
home, singing as usual, he was met at th^ door of 
his cottage by the little Antonio, who, weepinjg 
bitterly, exclaimed, " They have taken her away, 
father ! they have taken dear mother to prison ! " 

" To prison ! your mother to prison ! what do 
you mean, child?" said Masaniello, in surprise. 


" It is too true, friend Masaniello I '' observed 
Piedro, who just then entered the hut ; " I have 
been looking out for you this hour, to tell you 
of it." 

" What does it mean?" again asked the young 
fisherman, in an agitated voice, " who has dared to 
lay a hand on my wife? Speak, Piedro." 

" Your wife was bringing home some flour;- 
to evade the tax, she concealed it in her basket 
— the collector discovered it, and took her to 

" To prison ! my Teresa to prison ! " exclaimed 
Masaniello, with flashing eyes ; and without another 
word he rushed from the cottage. 

But Teresa had done wrong in attempting to 
evade the payment of the tax; it was dishonest; 
and her husband could not obtain her release until 
he did so with a sum of money. 
" From that day Masaniello conceived a violent 
hatred against the Spanish government ; he was no 
longer light-hearted; dark thoughts took possession 
of his breast. The fisherman of Naples was destined 
to experience more rapid changes of condition in 
the troubles which ensued, than perhaps any man 
ever underwent in the same space of time. 



It was Sunday — a peaceful and a happy day in 
England! the resting-place given us amidst the 
hurry of life, to remind us of eternity ! the quiet 
and grateful pause from worldly cares, to prepare 
us for an everlasting Sabbath ! 

" Rejoice ! for the day that God hath blest 
Comes tranquilly on with its promised rest ! 
His light is on all below, above, 
The light of gladness, of light, of love ; 
Oh ! then, on the breath of the early air, 
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer ! '* 

But alas ! the sun which on that Sunday shone 
in brilliant splendour over the beautiful city of 
Naples and her lovely bay, lit up anything but a 
scene of peace and gladness. Several peasants had 
come in from the country with fruit and vegetables 
for sale, and were assembled in the market-place to 
dispose of their stores. It was a festival-day also ; 
and sham fights, and the storming of a wooden 
castle, amused the crowd in the streets. The leader 
in these sports was Masaniello ; unanimously chosen 
as such, for his readiness of wit, and great personal 
activity in all those manly games which delight the 
people of Naples. 

" Fine ripe figs and juicy melons! who will buy? 


who will buy?" cried a hard-working young pea- 
sant, as he displayed a well-filled basket of delicious 

" No one, till you have paid me the tax," said a 
collector, stepping up to him. 

" Paid the tax! what, before I sell my fruit?" 
cried Domenico ; " what do you mean?" 

" I mean what I say," replied the man; " such is 
the provost's law; so come, one carlin on every 
pound you have there." 

" This is shameful!" exclaimed the indignant 
Domenico ; " this is not to be borne I Here is a 
new law, my friends ! " he said, raising his voice; 
" I am to pay the tax on what has as yet pro- 
duced me no profit ! Is that justice ?" 

" Shame ! shame ! " cried the people gathering 
round, and ever ready to take part against the col- 
lectors of the obnoxious tax ; " what new law is 
this? — ^Ah, here comes the provost — and Masaniello 
too — let us know what he thinks. Masaniello ! is 
it just to pay the impost before the fruit is 

" Just ! no ! who says it is ? " replied the young 

fisherman, making his way through the crowd; 

'^ what / is it Domenico, my Teresa's brother, they 


are tyraimizmg over!" he exclaimed, his dark 
eyes gleaming with passion ; " this shall not he^ 
while I can prevent it ! " and in an instant he was 
at his side. 

" Ay," said Domenico, now snre of support, 
** but they shall get neither tax nor fruit from me, 
I promise them ; " and so saying, he threw the 
basket of figs amongst the crowd; crying out, 
" Take those who will ; our tyrants shall have 
none of them ! " 

" They shall have this at least!" exclaimed 
Ma.a Jo, his synapathy and passion alike aroused ; 
and seizing a bunch of figs, he flung it violently in 
the provost's face. 

This was the signal for a general riot. Missiles 
of every description were thrown at the provost 
and his attendants ; the toll-bars were torn down ; 
the booths of the collectors burned ; and in a very 
few minutes the market-place was at the mercy of 
the infririated populace. 

" The Neapolitan people must pay no more 
taxes !" cried Masaniello. 

The cry was caught up and repeated by a thou- 
sand voices. "No more taxes! no more taxes! 
Masaniello shall be our chief I" 



In a few eloquent words the mistaken fisherman 
addressed the people. He told them that this was 
the crisis of their fate ; that they had gone too far to 
go back then ; and that if they would stand by him 
he would obtain a redress of all their grievances. 

The excited multitude vehemently applauding 
the address, shouted, " Lead us on, good Masaniello! 
lead us on to the viceroy's palace !" 

And on to the residence of the viceroy the rioters 
marched. Rapidly increasing in numbers, and 
armed with such weapons as they could procure 
from the gunsmiths' shops or elsewhere, they 
forced their way through the guards, and stood 
before the palace, loudly insisting on the abolition 
of all taxes whatsoever. 

Terrified by their violence, destitute of any force 
on which he could rely, and perceiving that every 
hour increased the popular excitement, the Duke 
of Arcos readily assented to every demand. ** You 
shall have all you desire, my good people," he said, 
as he appeared on the balcony, "be calm; the 
taxes shall be repealed." 

" He will not keep his word !" cried one of the 
jnob, " we know him to be crafty and treacherous." 

" Will he not?" aaiA. ^uoAlcL'st," then what right 


has he to stand there, and utter falsehoods to the 
people of Naples?" and as he spoke, he aimed a 
stone at the Duke's head. 

The Duke instantly retired; and the rioters, 
with wild shouts rushing forwards into the palace, 
began to destroy the valuable furniture it con- 

All at once a cry was heard — " He is escaping ! 
he is flying from us ! " 

The terrified Duke was indeed at that moment 
driving from his palace as fast as four horses could 
carry him. With loud threats of vengeance the 
furious mob pursued the coach, and soon stopped 
its fiirther progress. 

The unfortunate noble gave himself up for lost 
as the fierce Lazzaroni pressed round him with in- 
sulting language and menacing gestures. The cry 
of Masaniello — " Do him no harm ! " was unheeded. 
One, bolder than the rest, struck the viceroy, ex- 
claiming, " Your day of tyranny is over, proud 
Spaniard ! " Pale and agitated, he sunk back in 
the carriage, expecting instant death; when sud- 
denly a thought struck him. Taking out a well- 
filled purse, he scattered the gold and silver pieces 
amongst the crowd. A scramble immediately 


ensued, and the postilions at the moment setting 
spurs to their horses, the Duke escaped. 

Then the mob proclaimed Masaniello '^ Captain 
General of the faithful people of Naples;" — and 
he who had been a humble fisherman in the 
morning, was an absolute sorereign ere the night 
closed in. 

With loud acclamations a platform vas hastily 
raised for him in the great square, and there he sat 
in judgment, in his fisherman's attire, with a naked 
sword in his hand. Thence he issued his orders, 
and his will was law. 

But Masaniello was a changed man. His kind-* 
heartedness seemed to have given place to one deep 
feeling of revenge. Surrounded by the lowest 
rabble, his commands were instantly and eagerly 
obeyed. The prisons were broken open ; the man* 
sions of several, whom he considered averse to the 
liberties of the people, were set on fire ; and all 
who resisted put to the sword. One building, con- 
taining a large quantity of gunpowder, was blown 
up, and eighty-seven persons perished 1 

The flames of burning houses lighted every part 

of the city; and the Sunday closed amidst the 

abneka of the wounded, the lamentations of the 


relatives of the slain, and the savage exultations of 
the rioters. 

When Masaniello returned home that evening 
his brow was flushed, and his whole frame trembled 
with excitement. " Take the child away, Teresa! " 
he exclaimed as the little Antonio ran forward to 
embrace him, " and give me some supper ; I have 
eaten nothing to-day." His manner was almost 
stem as he spoke, and tears filled Teresa's eyes ; 
it was the first time he had ever returned home 
without a kind word for his wife, and a kiss for his 
child. But she well knew how he had been em- 
ployed that day, and sending Antonio out to play, 
she hastily set before her husband his favourite 
dish of macaroni. Masaniello, however, did not 
eat; he remained in moody silence, leaning his 
head on his hands, while Teresa tenderly pressed 
him to take some refreshment. 

" Come, it will revive you, dear Tomasso," she 
said, laying her hand on his shoulder, " you have 
done so much to-day ! " 

" I have," said the fisherman, " but I have done 
good, have I not, Teresa? " he asked, as he looked up 
anxiously in her fiwe. " We shall be happy still." 




'' Oh ! I hope so, my dearest Tomattso/' le^die 
liiii wife, " why Bhould you doabt it? " 

** I do not know ; but sometimes — I feel — oh 
Teresa, my head is hot — so hot ! But they call m 
their liberator, and I will free them ; yes — an 
they will love me and bless me — ^will they no 

^' Tliey will, my husband ; calm yovself^" sai 
i eresa, bathing his burning forehead. 

^^ Hark I those shrieks ! '' cried the fishermai 
as his sturdy frame trembled in every liml 
^^ Teresa, I am not cruel, am I? yet those shrieke 
oh bow dreadful are they ! " 

Teresa tenderly endeavoured to soothe her excite 
liusband. She told him he would be a blessing 1 
Naples, and that when taxes were abolished, evei 
Neapolitan would love and revere the name < 

By degrees he grew calmer. " You are a goc 
wife," he said, grasping her hand ; " it is cool an 
quiet here ; it is ever quiet and happy in my horn 
But where is the little one, the bambino, Teresa 
I liave not seen him to-day." 

The laughing, merry child, was soon seated < 
his Other's knee*, auOi axms^s^ by his innocei 


prattle, the fisherman's brow relaxed into a sniile. 
" Thou art a happy one, my bird 1 " he said, as he 
put back the clustering curls from his forehead ; 
" sing to me, my hamhino.^^ 

Antonio, in a sweet, melodious voice, trilled forth 
one of the simple airs of his country. The song of 
the child had its effect. Masaniello, in the presence 
of those hejoved, was again calm and happy. 

Just thtn Ludovico entered. " Come, Masan- 
iello ! " he exclaimed, " the council waits for you ; 
all are in attendance ; — are you not ready, good 
Masaniello? there is much to be arranged to- 

The fisherman started up. " Arranged ! " he 
said, *' truly there is much to be arranged before 
to-morrow's dawn! — much, good Ludovico! They 
wait, for me, you say ? Come then ; not a moment 
will I delay our great work." 

" Ah, my Tomasso," said Teresa, seizing her 
husband's hand, " go not forth again ; you are both 
feverish and weary; stay with us, dearest Tom- 

" Teresa, my wife," he replied, " I go to obtain 
freedom for the people of Naples ! You would not 
detain me, surely? Adieu ! " 


The two fishennen hastened to the tower of the 
Cannelites, where the council of rioters met, and 
poor Teresa, with a sigh, sat down hj her child. 

Few slept that night in Naples. Masaniello 
remained with his council, which was composed 
of the lowest of the rioters, till the morning 

The next day the tumults increasid with ten- 
fold violence. Masaniello, beginning t* display a 
still fiercer hatred of the nobility, again desired his 
followers to destroy the houses of those whom he 
considered enemies of the people. Fearful scenes 
endued ! The Lazzaroni paraded the streets with 
boathooks to drag the gentlemen from their horses, 
whilst women, with muskets on their shoulders^ and 
even children, took part in the national frenzy. 
Night again closed in amidst riot, dismay, and 
death. The lovely city of Naples was in the 
hands of a lawless mob ! 

That evening, when Masaniello returned to his 
cottage, Teresa could scarcely recognise the happy, 
light-hearted husband of her youth, in the figuie 
which stood before her. His face was pale and 
haggard, and his eyes blood-shot and wild with 
ejccitement. Taking no notice of his wife, he sank 


gloomily on a seat, and glanced restlessly ttound 
him, as if anxious and fearful. As he made no 
answer to the repeated and affectionate inquiries of 
the trembling Teresa, she threw herself on his neck 
in a flood of tears. 

'' What is it, dear Masaniello ? " she asked in an 
agitated voice, " what is the matter? you are ill? 
Oh! that you had never gone with the people! 
Far, far better to pay the taxes twenty times over 
than to see you thus I Speak to me, my Tomasso — 
you are ill — I know you are iU — oh speak ! " 

" Teresa," said the fisherman in a hoarse voice, 
" my brain is heavy and burning as if it were now 
overfloYsdng with molten lead — but*I have promised 
freedom to the people, and they shall be free ! — 
yes, I say it — ^they shall be free ! Listen I they call 
— they shout my name! I come, my friends! 
I come ! " and starting up he rushed from the 

The fears — ^the terrible forebodings that crowded 
into poor Teresa's heart, were, alas ! but too well 
founded. The excitement of the strange and sud- 
den events which had taken place, proved too 
much for the mind of the humble fisherman. 
Masaniello began to give unequivocal symptoms 


of insanity, though at times for several hours toge- 
ther he was calm and collected. 

It is not my intention, dear children, to tell you 
of the many lamentable events which ensued during 
that fearful burst of popular fury in Naples. But 
I will relate some of the proceedings of the deluded 
fisherman, Masaniello, ere death put an end to 
his sad, strange and eventful history. 

The Duke of Arcos, who had withdrawn to the 
Castel Nuovo, endeavoured to bring the excited 
people to reason, and for this purpose employed 
first, a Neapolitan noble, and then the Neapolitan 
archbishop, to act as his mediators with the insur- 
gents. The latter being beloved by the people, 
was received more favourably than the former, and 
the negotiations proceeded. 

In the meantime, large parties of banditti flocked 
to Naples firom the neighbouring country, desirous 
of having their share in any plunder that might be 
obtained. Now when the Duke of Matalone, who 
had acted as the first mediator, saw them arrive, he 
conceived the plan of their putting the leader of the 
mob to death. Accordingly he promised them a 
Bum of money if they would shoot Masaniello as he 


sat on his tribunal in the market-place. They 
agreed to do it. * 

It was a lovely morning, when Masaniello, having 
summoned a general assembly to deliberate on the 
proposals made by the Duke of Arcos to the people 
of Naples, an immense multitude thronged into the 

The fisherman sat on his tribunal, surrounded 
by his friends, while every eye in that vast assem- 
bly was fixed on him. As he dictated to his secre- 
tary — ^for unable to write himself, he was obliged to 
depute another to do so — a profound silence reigned 
in the crowd. It was broken, however, by the 
entrance into the square of several hundred banditti, 
armed, and on horseback. 

" Masaniello," said Domenico, who stood near his 
brother-in law, " I like not the looks of those fel- 
lows ; they come here for no good, I feel sure." 

"No," observed Piedro, "they care not for liberty, 
they pay no taxes ; — see how fiercely they look on 
the people ; beware of them, good Masaniello." 

" I will soon see on whose side, they are ! " ex- 
claimed Masaniello ; then, raising lus voice, he 
desired the banditti at once to dismount. 

Instead of obeying the command, aey^\s.<5>i^iNKcx 


instantly discharged their carbines full at the 
speaker ! 

Then arose a wild cry ! The people alarmed for 
the safety of their favourite, and maddened with 
rage at the attempt made upon his life, turned upon 
the robbers, and the next moment thirty of them 
lay dead on the ground. A desperate struggle 
ensued, but the bandits were at length overcome ; 
those who could not escape, being put to a cruel 

Masaniello was unhurt ; — ^not a ball had struck 
him ; and the people, testifying their delight and 
joy at his escape, made the air resound with their 

When this terrible day was over, another attempt 
was made to renew the negotiations. Masaniello 
drew up articles, in which he insisted on the total 
abolition of all taxes, and ^ general pardon to all 
concerned in the insurrection. 

" Is this as you would have it, my friends?" 
he asked, as he read aloud the conditions he had 
prescribed ; " have I expressed your wishes ? " 

" Exactly ! excellent ! excellent 1 " shouted the 
Neapolitans. " Viva/ Viva! Masaniello for ev«r!*' 


The acclamations having subsided, it was agreed 
that Masaniello should, accompanied by the arch- 
bishop, proceed at once to the Castel Nuovo, to 
receive the signature of the viceroy to the articles 
drawn up. 

Accordingly, changing his fisherman's attire for 
a superb robe of silver tissue, and mounting a 
splendid charger, richly caparisoned, the rebel 
leader set forth, accompanied by the archbishop, 
and attended by an immense multitude of people. 

The proud Duke of Arcos received the poor 
fisherman in the Castel Nuovo with the utmost 
respect ; treating him as he would have treated a 
Spanish grandee ; and without hesitation — though 
with much inward reluctance — accepted and signed 
the articles. 

But the conference, owing to the ceremony with 
which it was attended, lasted so long, that the 
people outside began to be alarmed for the safety 
of their favourite. 

" He is in the very jaws of the lion," said one ; 
" will he escape unhurt?" 

" Who can trust the Spaniard?" said another. 
" He loves neither us nor our leader.'* 

" We will burn his palace to the ground if he 



hurt but a hair of Masaniello's head!" cried' 

These symptoms of suspicion and uneasine 
increased ; the rioters grew impatient and tumi 
tuous ; and long shouts were heard of " Where 
our Masaniello ? Give us back our leader ! " 

" Fear not, my lord duke ! " said the fisherma 
— as the wild shouts reached the ears of the par 
within the castle^ and the viceroy's cheek gn 
pale at the sound — " fear not ! the people are b 
anxious for my safety. I will quiet them." 

He stepped out on the balcony, and by a sinj 
word hushed that immense crowd to perfect silenc 

" You are somewhat astonished, I see, my lord 
said Masaniello, turning to the amazed vicero; 
" I will give you yet a further proof of my infl 
ence with the people of Naples, and of their willii 
obedience to me, their chosen leader." 

He looked on the crowd and waved his hat 
when instantly every bell in Naples began to to 
— he made another signal, and the tolling instani 
ceased! He lifted his arm, and the multitu 
raised deafening shouts of "Viva! Viva!" — 
placed his finger on his lips, and the assemU 
'iiouaands at once became mu\& ^wd motionless I 


" This is wonderful indeed ! " exclaimed the 
astonished viceroy ; " your power and influence are 
marvellous, Signor." 

" You are convinced, I hope, my lord, that it is 
useless to resist the wishes of the people of Naples," 
said the fisherman. 

" I must own it," replied the duke, who saw 
that resistance was indeed vain ; *' I must own it ; 
and I must salute you by your title of Captain 
General of the people of Naples ; a title you have 
earned truly ! " 

Then, judging it expedient to soothe where he 
could not compel, the viceroy, taking a chain of 
massive gold, hung it round the fisherman's neck, 
saying as he did so, " I thus recognise your power 
and authority, Signor Masaniello, and create you 
at the same time Duke of St. George." 

Masaniello calmly received the honours awarded 
him, and then taking leave of the viceroy, returned 
in triumph to his humble home. Peace was thus 
momentarily restored to Naples. 

But Masaniello's malady increased. His sudden 
elevation to a dukedom — ^the numerous and un- 
ceasing questions which were referred to hixsv:— \^ 


total inexperience of business — ^the heat of the 
season — ^his want of sleep — all contributed to de- 
range his intellects. 

That night poor Teresa, with mournful anxiety, 
watched by her husband's couch. He slept but for 
a few minutes at a time, continually starting from 
his troubled slumbers, and exclaiming, " Up I up ! 
there can be no rest for us imtil we are masters of 

As day broke, he rose, feverish and unrefreshed. 
Fears troubled his mind, especially fears of a violent 
death. Anxious and agitated, he took little notice 
of his wife or smiling child. The remembrance of 
the honours he had received on the previous day 
gave him no pleasure. He dressed himself in his 
iisherman's attire, and, after a silent meal, wandered 
forth from the cottage. 

A beautiful orange grove stood at no great dis- 
tance, and towar(Js it Masaniello, sad and melan- 
choly, directed hi^ stetps. With a deep sigh, he 
cast himself on the green grass. It was a lovely 
morning. The birds were singing merrily amongst 
the trees, the flowers looked up with their bright 
Jittle faces to the aaiure miSl dQKv3Jftaa» ikies ; cm the 


blue and beautiful sea, sparkling in the distance, 
many a white sail was floating, and the glorious 
sun shone resplendent over all. There was a time 
when Masaniello would have truly enjoyed such a 
scene, but that time was gone for ever ! 

" Give me of your grapes instantly ! " said the 
poor unhappy fisherman to a peasant who was 
passing, well laden with delicious fruit; "quick! 
I perish with thirst." 

" You must speak in a more civil tone, friend, if 
you want my grapes," said the man. " One would 
think you were the viceroy himself ! " 

" Only one bunch ! or a water melon," asked 
Masaniello, in a supplicating voice. " Come, I 
will richly repay you." 

" And who are you that are so rich?" said the 
peasant. " If looks go for anything, one would 
not think you were overburdened with gold, or hap- 
piness either. Here, my friend, take the grapes 
and a melon also — I ask not for payment. Truly, 
it is payment to see how the fruit refreshes thee." 

" Thanks ! thanks, good friend ! " said Masa- 
niello, already revived ; " it is excellent. Tell me, 
are you from Naples ?" 

" Nay," replied the man, " I am. from.t^Nii.^'rcss^- 


yards at Sorento, and am called Geronimo Giottl- 
May I ask, in return, who it is that praises my 

" I am the fisherman, Masaniello.'* 

The name acted like a magic spell. 

"Masaniello! our Masaniello ! " exclaimed the 
peasant, all his coldness and caution vanishing in 
an instant, and giving place to the warmest and 
most ardent expressions of delight. " I did not 
dream it! Take all I have, good Masaniello ; it 
is yours by right. What do we not all owe to 
you? But you are overcome — ^you have over- 
exerted yourself for our sakes. Yes, while all 
Naples rings with the name — ^the loved name of 
Masaniello — ^he is ill with over exertion." 

" HI ! no ! — but listen, Geronimo," said the 
fisherman, in a low voice ; " thou hast an honest 
face— listen! the banditti — ^the nobles — all seek 
my life ; they thirst for revenge ; they would give 
a king's ransom to have the head of Masaniello, 
I fear them ; I will return home, there I shall be 
quiet and safe. Come, Geronimo, come with me." 

And Masaniello returned to his once happy 

From that day lie sat no mot^ o\i\iia tribunal in 


the market-place, but stationed himself at the open 
window of Ids cottage with a loaded blunderbuss 
in his hand. As he had put some to a violent 
death, so now he feared a violent death himself. 
A guard of Lazzaroni surrounded the cottage while 
Masaniello received petitions and issued orders. 
He now showed himself capricious, absurd, and 
cruel. The fisherman who a short time before 
would not have injured any living creature, so kind 
was his heart, now pronounced sentences of death 
with frightful rapidity. His hatred of the nobles 
increased with his fears of their revenge. 

Another Sunday dawned, and Naples was still 
in a distracted state. Masaniello determined that 
day to go on a party of pleasure by sea, to the 
Cape of Posilippo. On hearing this, the viceroy 
ordered his own barge to be prepared for him, and 
attended by a band of musicians, the fisherman 
went in state. Teresa and little Antonio accom- 
panied him, while an immense crowd hastened to 
the landing place to receive him with acclamations. 

No sooner was Masaniello on the deep blue 
waters of the bay, where he had passed most of 
his life from the time he was a little child — no 
sooner had he felt the cool sea bteftzft.% <5i^ \sj®^ 


fevered brow, than he became cahner and more 
gentle. "Oh! this is good! this is beautifkl !" he 
exclaimed ; " would that I had never left this 
glorions sea ! Teresa, I will return to my boat 
and my nets ; with them I was happy ; I had no 
fears then — ^no fears in my boat on the waters. 
Men called me the merry Masaniello ; but now — 
yes, I will resign my power, and return to happi- 
ness and peace." 

His words brought tears of joy to Teresa's eyes; 
she began to hope that the sorrows of the past week 
would be remembered but as a troubled dream. 
Alas ! her joy was of short continuance. 

On arriving at Posilippo, Masaniello went to 
mass ; but the malady of the unhappy man again 
increased, and scarcely was the service concluded, 
than he hastened hurriedly back to the sea, and 
throwing himself into the water with all his clothes 
on, swam about for nearly an hour. After this, he 
went to supper, at which he drank an enormous 
quantity of wine, and was taken home in a state of 
intoxication — a vice to which the Italians are rarely 
addicted. With wonder and surprise the people 
beheld the strange conduct oi \Itidx leader. But 


the next day, hia behaviour being still more extra- 
ordinary, even hk( friends became convinced of his 
insanity, and carefully watched him during the 
ensuing night. 

The archbishop of Naples was performing mass 
in the church of Del Carmine, on the following 
morning, before a crowded congregation, when 
Masaniello, having escaped from his friends, rushed 
in with wild and alarmed looks. At the conclu- 
sion of the service, the unfortunate man ascended 
the pulpit, and with a crucifix in his hand, ad- 
dressed the numerous audience. He told them he 
was betrayed and deserted, and with tears implored 
them not to abandon him. The people were at 
first affected by his words, but when he began to 
talk wildly and incoherently, many laughed, and 
some left the church. The priests then, with some 
persuasion, made him come down from the pulpit, 
and the archbishop, seeing the state he was in, 
spoke to him in a kind and gentle manner. 

" Come, good Masaniello," he said, in a soothing 
voice, *' come, and rest awhile in the adjoining 
cloister ; you are excited needlessly. Calm your- 
self, my friend." 

" Save me ! " said the poor man^ diuL^a^Xsi^Scst. 



archbishop ; " protect me ! the nobles seek my life. 
Tell them I resign all my authority. I will return 
to my nets ;— would that I had never left them ! " 

" Do not be alarmed," said the prelate, leading 
him to a cell; "rest on this couch, and you will 
be better soon." 

Masaniello rested for a few minutes ; he then 
started up again and stood looking sadly out of a 
window upon the calm and beautiful bay which 
lay stretched before him in placid loveliness. As 
he gazed, he thought of the happy days when he 
used to glide over the blue waters in his little 
fishing-boat, light-hearted, and without a care. He 
thought of the joy with which his gentle wife 
would ever greet him on his return home, and of 
the playful caresses of his little Antonio. 

" I will go back to my boat," he said, as he 
gazed with fresh delight on the scene. "I will 
return to my occupation ; I shall be happy then. 
Yes, I will return." 

But suddenly steps sounded in the corridor, and 

voices were heard shouting, " Health to the King 

of Spain, and death to Masaniello ! " Armed men 

appeared at the call door. Masaniello turned 

towards them. 


" Do my faithful people seek me?" be said, i*r 
a firm tone. " Here I am." * 

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when 
he received the contents of four muskets in his. 

" Ungrateful traitors ! ^' he exclaimed, and fell. 
Ere his head touched the ground, he was a dead 

You may be surprised to hear that the congre- 
gation in the church of Del Carmine learned the 
fate of the popular leader without any emotion. 

The very men who had followed him the day 
before with loud acclamations, now stood patiently 
by while his head was cut off to be sent as a trophy 
to the viceroy. The body of the unfortunate fisher- 
man, after being dragged through the streets by a 
troop of boys, was thrown into one of the city 

Such is the value to be set on the favour of a 
riotous mob. 

The morning after the murder of Masaniello, 
the changeable multitude sought out his remains, 
and in melancholy procession carried them to the 
cathedral. They were interred amidst tears and. 




lamentations^ and the funeral celebrated with the 
utmost pomp, thousands of the people attend- 
mg it. 
* Thus, in the short space of ten dajs, the 
numble fisherman had been raised to the height of 
. power, then murdered, dragged with ignominy 
through the city ; and finally buried with princely 
honours ! 

Teresa died of grief soon after the tragical event 
which deprived her of her husband; and poor little 
Antonio was left an orphan. 

The revolt of the Neapolitans was not quelled 
for some time ; but at length they were compelled 
again to submit to their Spanish masters. They 
had gained nothing, and lost much, by their riot- 
ous outbreak. 

Should you ever visit the lovely city of Naples, 
and see the idle Lazzaroni basking in the sun, 
will you not remember the story of the fisherman, 
Masaniello ?